Matthew is Mine
by Flagfish
Summary: This is a very dirty story; twin brothers America and Canada have always been possessive of each other. Alfred x Matthew, Ivan x Francis x Matthew, Kiku x Matthew, Alfred x Arthur, Arthur x Alfred, Francis x Arthur. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1

"England wants to speak with you."

_So move your palm from your mouth._

Hand reaching expectantly, Alfred held the receiver for his brother to take.

_No_, Matthew shook his head, _no_.

He couldn't, he can't, not with Alfred's mouth on him like that, not with his tongue gradually, wickedly sliding up the length of his betraying member, despite himself undeniably hard and wet.

But Alfred didn't flinch, phone waiting in his hand as finally Matthew took it with trembling fingers, and, fighting for composure, brought it tentatively to his ear.

"H—hello?"

He said, voice impressively close to unaffected as on the other end came the reply,

"Did everything go all right last night?"

Last night.

Last night? Face hot with embarrassment, Matthew could hardly remember the events that transpired last night. It was Alfred who found him this morning, half dressed and asleep and hung over, partway strewn over Francis' chest and part over Ivan's lap, wet with hard liquor and wine and the hot aftertaste of sex, and, screams lodged silent in his throat, he instead unraveled his brother from between the other two.

Canada never could hold his liquor.

_This is my fault_, he thought conclusively, it was his fault, because he engaged in his own share of debauchery that night, with Arthur, much against Arthur's will, instead of babysitting his brother.

His brother, a full grown adult, but hopelessly naïve no less.

Could he blame them, Alfred thought as quietly he worked at cleaning him now, his tongue wet, gentle and warm against the hard length of the member in his hand, could he blame them, really, when Matthew was so cute, so hopelessly unaware of the predatory stares quietly calculating attack—

Oh, he could, and will, and he already did—he gave both Ivan and Francis a piece of his mind, but, really, at the end of the day, if he hadn't slipped out that night to have his way with Arthur—

That settles it, then; this clearly was England's fault.

"Yes, we're—"

Matthew swallowed quietly as his voice echoed soft against the receiver in his hand,

"We're cleaning up—"

_Cleaning up after the party, isn't that right. _

He bit his lip as Alfred took the entire tip of his member into his mouth then, cruel in his ministrations and disregard—

After several moments more, he allowed it at last to slip back out, slick and red and hot, and it was all Matthew could do to keep from asking him to please take it in again—

Alfred wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching again for the receiver.

"Let me talk to him."

Nodding with helpless obedience, Matthew returned the phone, and, taking it decisively in his dry hand, Alfred cleared his throat.

"Last night was not okay!"

He informed the dumbfounded Arthur, who, really, was largely in denial that _last night_ happened at all.

All the while, Alfred didn't stop his hand's ministrations on Matthew, fingers sliding gradually along the slick length even as he reprimanded England on the phone.

A few seconds of silence before at last Arthur came to his senses.

"Just whose big idea was last night, anyway?!"

Came the retort, and the burning red of his cheeks was practically visible in his voice.

"Whose idea…"

Alfred trailed off as he very nearly took Matthew into his mouth again.

"You know?" he said, suddenly laughing, "I don't remember?"

All the while, Matthew was practically tearing up with frustration, humiliated beyond despair and red in the face. With an impressive superficial burst of courage, he attempted to escape his brother's grasp and get away, but to no avail; even as Alfred laughed absently into the phone, he maintained a tight hold on Matthew's wrist, keeping him safely in place.

Then, all at once, he grew serious.

"But that changes nothing. I had a responsibility to Matthew—"

The younger boy could now hear England's laugh on the other end of the line.

"Responsibility! And just what do you know about responsibility—!"

"Now you listen here…!"

Alfred had actually stopped for a moment to lick at the tip of Matthew's member before returning to the phone,

"…because of you, Russia and France—"

Now even Matthew could hear Arthur on the other end,

"…_that bastard, France…?!"_

"That's right! They…."

He gazed up at Canada's chest, still slick and messy from the night before, and shook his head in disappointment,

"…damn it, Matthew, you're a mess."

At that, Matthew finally fought back in defense,

"J—just let me be already!"

"Ha!" came the reply, and, dismissing him altogether, Alfred returned to the phone, "they made a mess of him, Arthur."

He slowly slid one finger past the wet entrance and sighed as if to himself, "Christ, Matthew, here, too…" and then, looking up at the mortified boy with genuine disappointment, "I thought I told you only I get to go there…"

Matthew cried out despite himself as he felt the long digit go in.

"Well," Arthur replied, "who the hell invited Francis anyway? Did you invite him?"

"Of course I _invited_ him—"

"What! Why in the hell did you invite him?!"

"That's not the point,"

Alfred sighed, finger sliding all the way into Matthew as he began in a manner of habit to urge the fluid out from him,

"if you didn't occupy me I would have been able to protect him—_Matthew, would you sit still_—I really wish you would pay more attention…"

"_Occupy_ you—!"

Arthur sputtered, too humiliated to correct him that, really, it was Alfred who did the occupying.

As he went on to say something or other, Alfred cupped the phone with his free hand, gazing up at Matthew as he murmured,

"I don't want you playing with Russia and France, those guys are perverts."

"You're a pervert!"

Matthew could vaguely hear Arthur call from the receiver, and he began wondering on just what grounds he would say so.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

The night before, it didn't seem like things were going to wind up so badly.

There was a little holiday dinner, a little get-together over at Alfred's place, and he generously allowed more or less free trips to his wine cellar, to his liquor cabinet, and also, more or less free shots from anything anyone else had brought along.

Busy in the kitchen, Matthew was carefully helping his brother prepare Jello shots, even though the both of them knew he would never try one, himself.

"Just one,"

Alfred had said, jokingly grabbing his brother from behind as he held one of the shots close to his mouth, dangerously close to tilting it in.

"Q—quit joking around,"

Matthew laughed, long fingers closing delicately around the glass as he returned it safely to its tray, "These are for the company."

_And you know I can't hold my liquor._

"That's right," Alfred replied, smiling in return, "we wanna be sure we have enough."

He lifted the tray and began to make his way out into the living room, Matthew at his heels and tentatively licking at the faint taste of liquor at his lip.

It was strong—even just that little bit—he could tell it was strong.

The last time he had had too much to drink was at TGI Friday's, when they went to celebrate his birthday, and, not taking into account his low tolerance, he managed to get buzzed off a number of wine coolers.

It wasn't pretty; he wound up sick in the bathroom (the _washroom_) for several hours after the fact, to Francis and Arthur's vast astonishment.

"It really is too much for him," Arthur had said, gazing curiously at the boy who really got sick off wine coolers.

Matthew didn't drink again since then. He used to say that he didn't like how it tasted, but eventually he grew weary of hearing others point out that _you can't taste the alcohol in wine coolers anyway_.

Anyway, somehow, he could.

"You see this?"

Arthur said to Alfred, waving what looked like some kind of cookie in front of his face,

"this is better than anything you've got here. This here's a Jaffa Cake."

Alfred's blue eyes followed the motion as Arthur waved it around.

"Is that so?" he asked with genuine curiosity, reaching forth to have a bite, but Arthur brought it quickly to his own mouth, chewing with triumph.

"Jerk,"

Alfred mumbled, looking away in irritation.

To Arthur this was vastly enjoyable, and he laughed heartily to himself as he mused philosophically on how much better his own snacks were compared with America's.

He was already mentally partway through composing a speech on the inane drivel that was Hollywood cinema and American football, and the ridiculous way Alfred left the 'h' out when saying _herb_, when there came a loud crash from the general direction of the dining room.

Blushing furiously, there stood Toris and Felix, both gazing guiltily down at the broken remains of what once was a tray of wine glasses.

After several moments of petrified horror, the two delved to the floor to collect the pieces, apologizing awkwardly for the mess and the red stain on the rug—

"Haha—!"

Alfred laughed as he trotted across the room to help them out, "it's—really, it's all right. I'm used to England and Canada making a mess here all the time…"

He knelt down to help them collect the shards, attempting as best he can to appear lighthearted and charming as he shooed them off.

"There's a whole other batch of wine glasses," he murmured aloud to no one in particular, "up in the attic, Arthur, would you mind…"

But Arthur was on the other side of the room, watching with quiet amusement as the he worked at cleaning the mess. Rolling his eyes, Alfred placed the tray on the coffee table nearby and paced across the room, taking Arthur by the sleeve of his shirt as he continued briskly to the stairwell,

"Come on, help me out," he said conclusively, having long since mentally assigned him the task, "I need help carrying down some stuff."

Over in the living room, Francis and Ivan were fighting for dominance over a bottle of Grand Marnier.

"This is nothing," Ivan informed the other boy, "this is what you have as a snack, this is dessert."

Francis laughed. "Go on then," he replied unaffected, "have your dessert."

In mockery of good manners he then handed the bottle to Ivan, waiting expectantly and with vast amusement to see where this will go.

What followed was a drinking challenge of sorts, where, drink after drink, neither of them seemed particularly affected by even the hardest liquor.

"Bring in the shots!"

Ivan announced in Matthew's general direction as he saw the boy carefully carrying the tray in from the kitchen, deliberately attentive not to drop it as Lithuania and Poland had before.

All the while, Arthur climbed the steps behind Alfred up to the attic, bemused as he followed along and cringing to himself in irritation as he gazed onto the utter mess that prevailed there, _this isn't how I raised you_, he thought.

Then, he stopped in his tracks, outright upset.

"Alfred F. Jones…!" he cried out in anger, one finger pointing accusingly at a pile nearby. There lay the once-perfect set of wooden soldiers he had gifted to Alfred many years ago, once carefully crafted painstakingly by hand, each piece unique and different from its counterparts.

Lying broken, neglected, a timeless antique mistreated and abused—

"This is just so typical—!" he seethed.

Alfred hardly turned in his tracks, bent already over the box of wine glasses he came for and ignoring Arthur almost entirely.

"You're making an awful lot of noise over there," he mumbled with disinterest, "make yourself useful already and help me out."

But Arthur didn't budge.

"Just what is the meaning of this….!" He continued, "is this how you take care of your toys!"

At last, Alfred turned around, clearly annoyed.

"My what?" he asked, peering over in his general direction. He squinted a while, having long forgotten the wooden set.

His irritation turned to laughter then, "Haha—oh! You mean—you mean, those? Wow, I entirely forgot about those…"

This, of course, only made things worse.

"Why I ought to—! Why I ought to give you a proper spanking—! You've never had appreciation for things, America! It's all…it's all just _plastic_ with you—"

"You sure are a piece of work," Alfred sighed, irritated now, "here you go on about appreciation, but are you helping me out at all…? It isn't easy throwing a party like this, you know…"

"I'll give you _appreciation_," Arthur seethed, now actually lunging forth at Alfred and smacking him in the face.

What followed was a long and cumbersome match of punching and kicking and hitting and scratching and pulling of hair, the wine goblets and wooden soldier set long forgotten as the two went at it across the dusty attic floor.

Downstairs, Francis and Ivan had Matthew seated awkwardly in their midst, the both of them already a bit buzzed now as they challenged one another to an unspoken competition of shots. Matthew had opted twice to get up and leave the tray to them, but, almost simultaneously, they pressed down on his shoulders,

"_Stay_."

"What did you put in these shots?" Ivan laughed, "fruit juice?"

"Tequila, and rum…" Matthew smiled nervously, distinctly remembering the nauseating aroma as Alfred had brought one too close to his lips a few hours back.

"We're not being very polite," Ivan said to Francis, "Matthew went through all this trouble, and we're drinking the whole thing…"

"Oh, haha, don't worry about me," the boy replied, and then, laughing to himself, Francis added,

"Matthew can't hold his liquor anyway."

"He can't, can he," Ivan laughed, eyebrows rising with amusement, "but there's hardly anything in this at all…"

"Really, it's—it's fine—"

Matthew quickly replied, having no desire to drink anything again.

Ivan was holding him close now, strong arm paternal as it slid round the bony angle of his shoulder, and, grinning with infinite gentleness, he held the glass just at Matthew's mouth.

"Just a little," he said, "you made these yourself, you know there's nothing bad in it."

"I—"

Matthew parted his lips to speak, and, mere centimeters away, Ivan gazed as carefully he tilted the glass in.

Before he could cough or protest or gag, Ivan then seized his mouth, kissing him very slowly and holding him steadily in place until finally the boy swallowed.

He held on for several seconds more, Matthew's long fingers brittle on his hand in weak protest before at last he was released. Then, staring weakly ahead, he brought his hands slowly to his mouth, astonished and traumatized as he admitted mentally that, really, _this time it wasn't so bad_.

Ivan gazed triumphantly from his left, bursting with unspoken pride at the fact that, apparently, Francis merely didn't know the proper way to handle young boys.

And one hell of a blow that was to France, who prided himself on exactly that.

"Well, Francis," Ivan said with contentment as he reached for another shot for himself, "he seems to be _handling it_ just fine."

He turned to Canada then, "Isn't that right," he crooned, carefully wiping the boy's lip with one large finger.

Francis seethed.

This, of course, meant war.

"Matthew," he purred in dangerously affectionate tones, "how come you're sitting all the way over there," _next to him._

"Well, I…"

Matthew trailed off, hand tracing absently at his lower lip where Ivan's finger had stroked him moments before, but before he could say anything else, both of Francis' long arms came around him as he drew him closer to himself.

Francis held him possessively, jealously, after all, he had quite a hand in raising this boy, it had been his place to teach him French and, if anything, it was his rightful place to teach him to drink. He kicked himself mentally for not doing so sooner, before Ivan had the chance.

_So that wasn't so painful when Russia did it, isn't that right_, he thought with annoyance as he reached again for the tray, _well, just you wait, I'll make you actually enjoy it_.

Matthew's eyes followed the shot glass as Francis lifted it from the tray and brought it closer to both of them. But, instead of putting it to Matthew's lips, he brought it to his own. He quickly tipped it in, and then, motioning playfully with his finger, he beckoned the boy closer, arms caressing him gently as he began slowly to kiss him.

Matthew's long, transparent eyelashes batted several times with innocent surrender as he allowed docilely for France to proceed, delicate and fragile in his grasp and infinitely vulnerable to the proficient advances of an expert.

The pink liquid of the drink trailed out the corner of his mouth, and Francis licked at it slowly, but, to his contentment, Matthew obediently swallowed the rest without a fight.

"That's very nice," Francis crooned, still holding Matthew very close as he released his lips.

If a number of wine coolers were enough to make him sick, then two shots of hard liquor—Jello or not—had certainly taken their toll. Matthew was now curiously numb, dizzy and quiet and flushed in the face as he leaned back of his own accord into Francis.

At this, of course, Francis beamed at Ivan with uninterrupted pride, long arms coming securely around the boy and holding him triumphantly to himself.

Ivan laughed.

"Neither of you can hold your liquor," he concluded with amused tones, "you both look like you're on the verge of collapse."

He reached across the couch and slid his hand not behind Matthew's head, but behind Francis. "One or two more and you're finished," he informed his counterpart.

"Ha!" Francis laughed, still cradling Canada as he allowed Ivan to proceed, curious to see where this will go.

Where this went is that Ivan brought another glass to Francis' mouth, and, eyes darting to his lips, murmured, "open wide…"

Laughing, Francis did, but even before the full contents poured in, Ivan seized his mouth, holding his face steady with both hands. Francis actually resisted for a few moments before giving in, Ivan's large hands steady and warm on his stubbled cheeks.

He laughed inwardly with amusement; the guy really was good.

Up in the attic, Arthur had Alfred beneath him on the floor. Straddling his waist victoriously with knees on both his sides, he laughed with diabolical satisfaction, as he held hard to the boy's wrists pinned above his head on the floor.

Really, it was a relief to them both, the both of them covered in bruises and scratches and cuts and breathing hard from the long struggle that lead up to this point.

"You're weak, America…!"

Arthur concluded aloud, "You're annoying and weak!"

Alfred gazed up, chest heaving and glasses hanging partway over the side of his face and hair a disheveled mess.

Silence.

"Kiss me,"

He suddenly said.

Silence.

Bewildered, Arthur gazed down, too astonished for words.

And then—

for some reason—

he did.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

"Look,"

Francis crooned in low tones, breath coming humid against Ivan's mouth, and, eyes tilting downward, he motioned to Matthew serenely tucked against his chest.

Ivan smiled, moving just enough apart as to tilt Matthew's chin in his direction.

"Do you want more to drink?"

He asked with feigned tenderness, ready and absolutely willing to drown an entire bottle of vodka in him just to see him helpless to its effect.

"Nn…" Matthew moaned, slender fingers cutely attempting to adjust his glasses back in place, "I—no, no thank you—"

Ivan laughed quietly as he proceeded to slide the boy's glasses entirely off his face.

"Do you want more of anything else…?"

He whispered, and it wasn't so much a question as a courtesy notice of what was to come, because he didn't give him a chance at all to respond before taking his lips again.

And, very slowly, Matthew's slender arms came around his large shoulders, accustomed as he was to taking refuge in the arms of older boys who had guided and raised him throughout life.

Francis watched with a combination of amusement and mute horror as this went on, uncertain whether to feel angry of jealous or—or—aroused—

"Ivan, you're sick," he laughed, and it was almost a compliment, a title of admiration previously belonging to him alone. Ivan merely gazed back through diffuse strands of hair, still kissing Matthew, eyes filled with mockery as to say, I've conquered him and now he's mine.

Beneath him, Matthew's cheeks were hot, red with liquor and glistening just the slightest bit with salty warmth, and, ever the gentleman, Francis began gently to unbutton the boy's shirt.

"He's so hot…"

He murmured quietly to himself, and, against Ivan's mouth, Matthew gasped just the slightest bit at the exposure to the cool air as beneath him his shirt slid off.

"Here we are…" Francis said as Matthew helpfully pried his arms from around Ivan's neck just enough to allow the shirt to come down,

"that's a good boy…"

There was on the other side of the room a very attentive gallery of patrons consisting of Taiwan and Hungary and a quietly astonished Liechtenstein, the three mumbling to one another in low tones as they passed amongst themselves the Jaffa Cakes that Arthur had left behind, and also a bottle of Merlot that none had even thought to open.

Gazing out the corner of his eye, Francis crooned with polite tranquility, "Please, ladies, is there any more wine?"

"Haven't they had enough," Liechtenstein murmured, but Elizabeta slid the bottle across the tabletop in silence.

"Thank you," Francis said, attention momentarily occupied away from Matthew and in the unscrewing of the bottle cap.

Momentarily neglected, Matthew resumed his place against Ivan, and as the long articulations of his arms slid again around his neck, he began to mumble something indecipherable.

"What's that?"

Ivan asked, and Matthew murmured again,

"_J'ai chaud_—"

"He's hot," Francis said, and then, for lack of a proper goblet, proceeded to pour the wine into one of the emptied shot glasses on the tray.

"Even after we've disrobed you…" Ivan murmured with feigned reprimand, "whatever shall we do…"

After taking a long sip, Francis returned the glass to the table, and now, at last a bit drunk, he proceeded gently to part the hair at the back of Matthew's neck before beginning slowly to kiss him there.

"I don't think it's going to get any cooler," he breathed, and Matthew cried softly at the feel of his mouth at the sensitive skin there.

"He's unused to so much attention," Ivan whispered, handing him to Francis as he sat back momentarily to gaze at the naked expanse of the boy's chest.

"Is this any better,"

he asked, taking the wine from the tabletop and tilting it slowly over Matthew's bare skin, and Matthew gasped at the cold, watery trickle as it poured down.

Before he could reply, Ivan leaned closer, and, soft hair brushing against his chest, he began to lap at the fluid, Matthew crying with innocent surrender and blushing as he attempted to stifle his voice with his palm.

"Don't tell Belarus," Taiwan murmured to her friends, "Canada would never survive the beating."

Upstairs, Arthur had slowly kissed Alfred. His touch was deceptively sensitive, gentle, careful behind a wall of cynicism so deep and dark that Alfred sometimes wondered if there was anything behind it at all.

This boy he raised, once a helpless kid who was manageable for the most part and decently controlled, had grown somehow into a tall giant of a man, bright-eyed and fearless as he towered over the very guy who brought him up.

It was irritating to Arthur, Arthur who had grown weary of the confidence and stamina with which the boy had trampled and stomped over everything that was sacred and holy to others far beyond his years.

But he was gentle nonetheless, somehow boyish and cute behind the curious shimmer in his eyes, because his self-righteousness and pride were founded never in malice, but in genuine belief that he was out to do good.

Even now his large hands felt gentle on Arthur's thighs, a boy many years his younger who nevertheless was confident and strong, his touch reassuring and secure despite all else.

He was annoying, this was true without a doubt, but also it went without saying that he knew his way around.

Unquestionably, America was a top.

But not that night.

No words were exchanged as, very slowly, Arthur's slender hands worked at unfastening the latch on Alfred's belt. There was just the clinking of metal, the soft slide of cloth and the echo of breath as, silently, Alfred raised his hips from the floor so that Arthur could slide his trousers down.

The cool air of the attic, and Alfred oddly helpless in his arms, gazing up with innocent curiosity and interest despite his undeniable potential to affect.

_That's my boy_, Arthur almost thought, almost, because the idea was ridiculous now, so long faded and so far changed.

But Alfred's large hands were gentle on his thighs, despite it all innocent and warm, and it was with good intent and trust that he let Arthur disrobe him then.

He wasn't embarrassed. He really didn't mind.

He loved Arthur all the same.

"Is this okay?"

Arthur asked, hands deceptively proficient as his long fingers slid insistently over the white fabric of the boy's briefs, and, nodding in response, Alfred quietly replied,

"Yes, that's very nice—"

He was aroused behind the thin restraint of the cloth, hard and responsive under Arthur's touch without shame, and he actually propped himself up by the elbows to watch as Arthur bent down to run his tongue slowly over the fabric there.

He was so hard. So undeniably big behind his briefs.

He watched with childlike interest as Arthur slid the elastic back, down his long legs and narrow thighs, and he cursed Alfred in his mind, because the guy really had nothing to hide; he truly was beautifully built.

Instead of touching him, or caressing or holding or attending to Alfred's neglected anatomy that so insistently wanted his care, Arthur proceeded instead to pry open his jacket, he wanted him naked all at once, naked and vulnerable beneath him on the attic floor, he wanted to take him like that.

Impressively well-behaved, Alfred allowed him to slide his clothes gradually off, his jacket and then his shirt and the undershirt beneath, until he was completely nude, only his glasses still in place as he gazed quietly up, expectantly, not the least bit embarrassed or upset.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

"He's so pretty,"

Liechtenstein whispered to no one in particular, all three young women transfixed as they stared in mute fascination at the events that transpired on the other couch.

Francis had Matthew nearly upside-down, lying on his back with his legs strewn gracefully over Francis' shoulders as he began proficiently to work at the button of his fly. Matthew's belt was already undone and now Francis was tugging at his trousers, slowly pulling them off as Ivan held Matthew's upper body in his lap, long fingers raking through the yellow cascade of his hair as it scattered across his thighs.

Matthew gazed up quietly at Francis, his naked chest still wet with wine and he gasped suddenly when, after removing his trousers, Francis began very gently to bite at his thigh.

"_Shh_…" Ivan consoled him, hands large and warm as he caressed the boy's brow, _it's okay, keep your voice down._

His legs were slender and naked and long, lined just the slightest bit with transparent yellow hair, articulations hard and elegant. Francis ran his hands with appreciation along the pale expanse of his thighs, gazing down with satisfaction at Matthew gazing silently up, and his eyes darted momentarily to the ladies on the other couch, as if asking,

_Shall I? _

Shall I, that is, _shall I pull down his briefs_, and, frozen motionless, three sets of eyes conveyed the unquestionable response,

_God, please, yes._

Francis leaned forward then, gazing at Matthew and then at the women and back, and slowly closed his incisors on the white elastic of his briefs. He pulled very slowly, luxuriantly, eyelashes long and batting as he met Matthew's gaze.

Some things couldn't be helped.

Westerners.

Perhaps, for Westerners, things went like this. They slept naked, right, they walked around naked and they ate weird stuff like snails, and they did stuff like that openly during holiday parties, and if that's how it was, then far was it from Kiku Honda to touch the subject or open that can of worms at all. Debauchery like this was nothing new, but debauchery like this casually carried out right there in the open, well—

Well.

Perhaps that's how it was with Westerners. Alfred and Arthur were gone for quite some time, as well, and, ever reserved and careful in mind, Kiku also wasn't going to ask about that. It was bad manners on part of the host, but maybe that was a Western thing, too. He remained civilly in the kitchen with Toris and Felix, taking charge of washing the dishes and employing their help as to redeem them for the damage they caused before.

He knew all too well what went on outside, and, deliberately careful not to speak of it aloud, he asked the other boys to stay as he went out to retrieve some of the dirty dishes from within the other hall.

The room was unusually quiet, shrouded in intensity and suspense as Francis very slowly pulled Matthew's briefs down along the slender length of his thighs. The boy was undeniably beautiful, the very picture of innocence and youth, Francis smiled contentedly to himself, how something so modest and humble was a product of his own upbringing, he never really knew.

Ivan remained disturbingly quiet all throughout, gazing at both Francis and Matthew with mocking serenity, evil to be sure, as though mentally he already had worked out exactly how he was going to ruin and torture them both.

He caressed Matthew's soft hair with an oddly reassuring palm, protective, consoling, the very palm that would have him helpless and begging in the end—

When Matthew tried, as in force of habit, to gather his limbs and to turn away, they both held him in place, gentle but firm, and France licked at him slowly, long hair a sway of yellow silk against his thighs as his mouth came wetly on his naked flesh.

Matthew didn't cry out. Brows furrowed in helpless defeat, he squeezed his eyes shut, breath issuing forth through his teeth as he bit down on his palm.

"Don't close your eyes," Ivan reprimanded, deliberately moving Matthew's hand away and instructing him to turn his gaze back, and, with a soft apology, Matthew did.

He was hopelessly hard, member glistening naked and wet in Francis' hand as the older boy lapped at him carefuly, malevolently slow.

Francis' blue eyes were seductive, silently tormenting as he gazed through long eyelashes from above Matthew's thighs, devastating without a single spoken word, staring deliberately at the ladies on the couch.

Matthew moaned innocently in his grasp, helpless in Ivan's lap as the other boy held him securely in place, that's a good boy now, don't stifle your voice, don't look away. He even slid Matthew's glasses helpfully back on his face as to make sure he could see.

Breath echoing humid against the slick exposure of Matthew's inner thigh, Francis spoke suddenly, voice fluid and low but very distinct.

"Kiku, please come here," he said, bothering neither to turn around nor even alter his gaze.

Dish tray in hand, Kiku stopped in his tracks.

Several moments had passed, time standing still, before, without expression and without a word, Japan had paced silently to join France at his side.

"Kiku, you know Matthew,"

Francis said, and, expression unaffected and unprovoked, Kiku merely nodded, I do.

America's brother.

"I don't believe," Ivan said as he stroked Matthew's cheek, "that you've been properly introduced."

After a silence, Kiku carefully bowed, eyes large and brown as he met Matthew's gaze. Matthew gazed silently back, nodding in a curious display of acknowledgment.

Francis' lips were very red, the skin around his mouth glittering slick as he pulled slowly away, and, for a moment, even Ivan thought he would like to kiss him, to lap at the wetness there—

In France's hand, Matthew was painfully hard, insistent and red as thin, transparent rivulets ran down the hot length of his member and onto the long articulations of fingers still wrapped all around—

"You haven't eaten tonight, Kiku, isn't that right,"

Francis said, and, gaze turning silently toward him, Kiku said nothing for a long time.

"No," he finally replied, "I haven't."

The fluid glistened slick on Matthew's thighs, trailing wet along the skin and down to Francis' clothes beneath, and, long fingers firm on his member, Francis beckoned to Kiku, moving enough aside as to give him room.

Silence.

Dark hair shimmering as he bent forth, Kiku reached tentatively out with his tongue, careful and composed as very slowly he lapped at the tip.

Ivan and Francis stared transfixed, neither saying a word, and it was only Matthew's voice that broke the silence, desperate and soft as, blushing, he turned his face in modesty into the refuge of Ivan's hand.

_To be continued…_

_A/N: My first boyfriend was Japanese-Canadian, so there will always be a special place in my pants for this particular pair. _


	5. Chapter 5

There was a time many years ago that Alfred had come home in tears.

Busy in the kitchen, Arthur merely heard the slam of the front door, and, stopping mid-stir at the pot, he listened for the sound of little feet stomping with petulant fury up the stairwell to the second floor. Wiping his hands on his apron, he proceeded to exit the kitchen and make his way up to Alfred's room, knocking carefully on the door.

When there was no response, he slowly turned the handle and stepped in, finding Alfred seated on his bed and facing away. He was very quiet, he was holding something, hunched a little bit forth, back rising and falling with the rhythm of breath, and it took Arthur several moments to realize that he was crying.

Eyebrows furrowed, he wondered what had gone on, and he walked closer to the bed, sitting down on the other side.

There was a depression in the mattress, but Alfred didn't stir.

"Hey,"

Arthur said, and after several moments without response,

"What have you got there?"

Silence.

Carefully, Arthur moved closer, looking over the boy's shoulder to see what he had in his lap.

It was a wooden box, and inside it were pieces and parts, something broken, copper wires and a thin, elongated rod, and many, many little metal bits.

Alfred's face was red, puffy and sticky from the drying remains of tears, and his yellow hair hung gracelessly over his forehead, covering the red in his eyes.

His small hands were rigid, tight in their grasp on the wooden container, filled with stubborn rage as he refused even to look down.

Arthur didn't remember buying him stuff like this.

"Is this yours?"

He asked.

Silence for a long time, and then, breath ragged with quiet tears, Alfred nodded, _yes_.

Now seated at his side, Arthur carefully looked in; the parts were a terrible mess.

"What is it?"

He finally asked, and, gaze fixed angrily ahead, Alfred quietly replied,

"It's a lightning rod."

Silence.

Arthur nodded quietly to himself.

"A lightning rod."

Silence.

"May I see it?"

He asked, and, now sniffling despite himself, Alfred replied,

"No. It's stupid."

They remained motionless for a very long time before, very gently, Arthur reached his hand and placed it softly on Alfred's.

The boy bent his head forth, releasing his hold on the box and allowing Arthur to take it and place it carefully in his lap.

With long, slender fingers, Arthur picked at the parts, holding them up to inspect them more closely.

"It's…it's supposed to protect people's houses from lightning," Alfred said very quietly, still staring angrily down.

"Everyone said it was stupid."

And Arthur could tell where it went from there: by the looks of things, the wires and parts in the box were likely once assembled into a uniform structure, something Alfred had spent a great deal of time constructing and planning, no doubt, and, most likely, the _everyone_ who thought it was stupid must have broken it.

Without a word, Arthur began searching through the box, inspecting parts with careful fingers before beginning very slowly to put them together the way they seemed to belong.

"I don't think it's stupid,"

He said softly, quiet and attentive, loving almost as his hands worked at reconstructing the broken device.

Large hands. Great, long-fingered hands, Alfred found himself gazing despite himself, hopeful before ever realizing there was hope at all.

"I…" Arthur said when at last he was done, and he held the thing up and inspected it from various angles, "I think this is how you must've had it, is that right?"

Carefully, Alfred's small hand reached out to take the model from Arthur. He inspected it in his lap, turning it over and swallowing in silence.

"I think,' Arthur said, hands idle as he gazed down, "I think that a lightning rod isn't stupid at all."

Alfred's head was still bowed, his small fingers moved slowly over the wires and metal bits, and Arthur sighed to himself as at last he gathered him into his lap.

"Come here," he said softly, and his slender arms felt so large, so protective and strong around Alfred's small body then, secure and gentle and warm as he held on very tightly to him.

Very slowly, Alfred leaned into him, reaching only far enough to the flanks of his back, lightning rod still tight in his palm.

"It might take some time," Arthur said, gently kissing the top of his head, "people still don't understand things like this; but I think eventually….eventually they'll see what a not-stupid idea this really is."

_And then I'll tax the living crap out of it._

***

_(Present day; as in, two full-grown adults)_

Many years ahead, Arthur had Alfred up in the attic, up against the attic wall.

Really, it was more midway down against the wall, because they slipped over time, Alfred naked as the day he was born and Arthur nearly fully dressed as he held the other boy's leg up under the knee, eyes closed and breath coming shallow.

They were both very hot, very desperate and wet, _kiss me_, breath coming humid, their mouths brushing against one another and Arthur had thought, he really had wanted him terribly bad—

The fluid ran liquid and hot down Alfred's leg, slick and transparent, glistening white, from his thigh to his knee and from there farther down,

_Kiss me_

"Kiss me," he asked, glasses partway fogged and hair swaying in time, blonde strands sticking moist to his forehead beneath, and, smiling, voice hoarse, Arthur replied,

"Why should I?"

Lips stretched in a smile, Alfred merely gazed back, eyes sparkling blue, and Arthur went on,

"Just because you want it?"

"Yeah,"

Alfred laughed, breathless, challenging,

"Just 'cause you're the _hero_?"

"Yeah, that's right,"

And Arthur moved very close to his mouth, lowering his gaze to Alfred's lips even as he continued to thrust hard into him—

Then, eyes flipping back to meet his gaze, whispered,

"No."

"Bastard,"

Alfred laughed, and Arthur grinned back, smile wide and toothy as he kept thrusting up.

All at once, Alfred's large hands came on either side of his face, forceful, insistent, and the boy seized his mouth, laugh coming throaty as he held him in place, and Arthur lost his balance—

They both did, a disheveled mess of legs and arms as they fell gracelessly to the floor, where, giving in at last, Arthur seized Alfred tightly, arms weaving all around, and, lying beneath him, at last he kissed him back, messy, breathless, sweaty, sticky and wet, and laughing, grinning with knowing affection against the boy's mouth—

Even as clever hands worked craftily, quickly to disrobe him all at once, tugging hard at his trousers as, safely on top, the hero announced in his ear,

"_My turn_."

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

"Don't look away,"

Ivan said, smile composed and knowing, eerily patient as he prompted Matthew to move his face away from his hand. His warm, large fingers remained secure as he held on to Matthew's head, so he could see exactly what Francis and Kiku were doing.

Eyes shimmering and cheeks burning with blush, Matthew gazed despite himself, and, grinning in return, Francis took Kiku's wrist, eyes darting to Matthew and back as he leaned in with absolute chivalry to kiss the boy's hand.

Perpetually composed, Kiku almost kept from flinching—almost—as there passed through his face just the faintest shiver, just the faintest clenching of teeth, and when Francis leaned in to lick slowly at his lips, he merely averted his gazed away.

"You have a crush on America, don't you,"

Francis whispered, red lips stretching into a wicked, knowing smile against Kiku's ear, and, before remembering to guard himself, Kiku heard himself gasp, and this was infinitely rewarding to Francis, whose laugh came guttural and low against the boy's ear; this was all the confirmation he needed.

"Then you shouldn't really mind," he crooned, teeth closing gently on the cartilage shell of his ear.

"I'm not America,"

Matthew heard himself say, surprising even himself with both the extent of his cognizance and his boldness, and, with feigned compassion, Francis crooned back,

"_Bien sur que non_,"

_Of course you're not._

But, long fingers wrapping slowly around Kiku's wrist, he lead him with clear intent toward the glistening member below, steady as he closed the boy's hand around the hard flesh. Face burning red, Kiku again looked aside, feeling despite himself the wet slide moving firm beneath his fingers as Francis guided him along.

"You know that America does this to him,"

Francis smiled, words ghosting ethereal against the delicate folds of his ear, and now Matthew blushed even deeper, unable to speak under the pleasant torment of their hands.

"Is that so,"

Kiku said softly, and Ivan found himself marveling at the obvious jealousy there, Kiku was jealous of Matthew, Matthew who practically melted with shame.

"He's very possessive, your brother," Ivan said softly against Matthew's ear, "Alfred doesn't' like you to play with anyone else—"

"S—stop it,"

Matthew heard himself say, and his voice was serious, weak, defensive somehow as he tried again to turn his face.

His hand still on Kiku's, Francis then slowly took the hard member in his mouth, sliding in slowly, proficiently, the three of them watching as Matthew cried out despite himself , helpless despite his attempts to suppress—

Francis didn't release him for a long time. He took him all the way in, steady, and sliding deliberately against the very back of his throat, time and again, until Matthew's own hands came slapping hard against his own mouth to stifle himself, until at last Ivan managed to pry them aside.

His eyes were liquid, desperate, tormented and disturbed, but when at last Francis let him go, he very nearly pressed his hips upward to reach him again, defeated entirely and far beyond shame.

"Go on,"

Francis crooned, he was speaking to Kiku, Kiku whose large eyes gazed silently, quiet and filled with composure; he wanted this, too.

_Go on._

Francis' fingers still secure around his hand, Kiku gazed down at the member beneath, glittering wet, it was naked and hot—

Matthew might have protested, bitter and angry and hurt, _I'm not America, don't enjoy it so much_, but his body betrayed him, helpless and aching almost for relief—

"Like this,"

Francis whispered, and, taking Kiku's wrist, he gently guided his hand farther down, bringing two of his fingers apart and against the wet entrance. Matthew cried out as they slowly slid in, and, closely observing, Francis said gently,

"all the way in—"

His large hand closed on Kiku's wrist and, steadily, he guided him in the full way, down to the knuckles, and told him to stroke up.

Ivan was smiling, hands already firm at the sides of Matthew's face as to hold him in place, knowing all too well just what was to come—

And Matthew did, too, because this wasn't foreign, this wasn't secret, and Alfred had always been really so good, so proficient and practiced when he had done this—

From the other couch, three sets of eyes watched transfixed, astonished and desperate,

_Oh! Matthew—!_

He brought his hands to his face, biting down on his palm, hair long and soft as it fell in his brow, over his eyes and into his mouth, and, sliding it away, Ivan said gently,

"How does it feel, Matthew? Is that good?"

And, brows knotted in surrender and far, far beyond shame, Matthew just barely managed to nod, whispering, _yes, please, please, yes_—

"Is this what Alfred does to you,"

Ivan gently smiled, and it was a wicked, horrible question, heartless and cruel toward Matthew and Kiku as well, but, far beyond surrender and subject entirely to physical torment, Matthew breathed,

_Yes, he does this to me, _his voice echoed tremulous, _yes—_

_Go on_,

Francis whispered, and even as he kept Kiku's hand firmly in place within the other boy, he urged him to take the member in his mouth, and because, this time, Matthew really was going to cry very loud, Ivan leaned in to kiss him, hands steady on his wrists.

Matthew's voice came muffled when he came, a sweet, innocent cry, eyes tearing wet and abdomen tensing, his whole body rigid as he struggled in Ivan's grasp.

"Don't swallow," Francis whispered in Kiku's ear, and, at last, he gently slid Matthew's long legs down from over his shoulders, sliding partly away as to give Japan room—

Gently, carefully, Kiku climbed over Matthew, onto the couch, and his touch was so gentle, so careful and feathery light that Matthew had wondered if he was there at all—

They gazed at each other, both of them silent, curious, odd—

Delicate eyelashes batted softly over large, dark eyes before Kiku leaned down to kiss him, and, as he tasted himself on his tongue, as the glistening fluid streamed hot and white down along Matthew's lip, out the corner of his mouth and along his neck and his jaw, he felt just the slightest bout of pain, because nobody had ever kissed him this way, touched him so gently, or held him so close—

—without thinking or hoping or pretending he was Alfred, instead.

_To be continued…_

_A/N: Credit for the small bits in French here and there goes to my good friend and partner in crime, Iosane who is French Canadian. _


	7. Chapter 7

"Don't cry,"

Kiku whispered, words humid and immaterial against Matthew's ear, almost as though he hadn't spoken at all, and, really, Matthew hadn't cried yet, not visibly, not aloud,

_Shh—_

Long, slender arms came around Matthew's neck and it really was hard, it was hard not to think, not to pretend he was Alfred, because they looked so much alike, he was almost as tall, his eyes just as blue behind specular lenses—

And Kiku couldn't help, despite himself, wondering deep in his mind, was that what it was like, was this how he smelled, was this what he felt like up close—

No, these were selfish, horrible thoughts, but did anyone expect him to think anything else—

Even Matthew, beneath him, was silently crying, still without any visible tears, because he also knew—

No, he wasn't like America.

No matter how much they seemed alike, he couldn't envision Alfred breaking down and crying this way.

Gently, carefully, Kiku's delicate fingers came around Matthew's glasses, and, very slowly, he slid them off his face. Carefully placing them on the table nearby, he began to kiss him very softly, on his mouth and his cheeks and his forehead and the pointed tip of his nose, and, when finally the tears did come, on his eyes and the cartilage shell of his ear, whispering silently,

"_Don't cry, Canada—please don't cry—_"

Ivan and Francis waited patiently, generously, allowing this to go on and polite enough to keep from butting in, two patient wolves merely granting some time before they attack.

Francis laughed inwardly, because he really had seen Alfred break down, just like this, just like Matthew, at times wretched in silence, at times stirred with rebellion, red-faced and sticky as he hollered profanities at Arthur until at last he'd grow weary, exhausted, and, throat sore, would collapse against the door of his room, locked from the outside, and cry quietly to himself.

Francis would gloat, smiling with absolute contentment over the perfect roast he was making,

_You're a terrible parent_,

His gaze seemed to say, and later that night he would find himself trying uselessly to reason with Arthur from the outside of the locked bedroom door.

Matthew didn't put up terrible fights. He was a good boy, quiet and friendly and alone—

He cried alone.

Francis would seat him on his knee, slender fingers dabbing a handkerchief at his large, reddening eyes,

"Qu'est ce qui ne va pas? Pourquoi pleures-tu?"

_What's wrong? Why are you crying?_

And, anguished and tired, Matthew would rest his head in the crook of Francis' neck, hot and sticky and hair disheveled, and Francis would pick him up and carry him to his bath,

_The good parent_.

_He still was such the good parent now._

Arthur wasn't seductive, romantic, or soft, but he had a vast and genuine love for the boys all the same, and even if he couldn't make a perfect roast, even if he couldn't shampoo and condition and brush Matthew's hair the way Francis did, so that it turned out luxuriant and soft like brilliant silk, he broke down in genuine tears when his boys left, and after they did, he continued to watch from afar, all the same.

_All the same._

Matthew's big eyes gazed silently at Kiku, tired and confused, but dry, and, many years his elder, Kiku gently kissed his forehead, _that's a good boy_, before handing him to Francis.

_Don't leave me_,

Matthew's eyes seemed to say, but softly, unspoken, there came the reply,

_Not like this. _

We won't do it like this.

_Not when you're drunk, not with them watching, not with your brother on everyone's mind—_

And yet, the next morning, Matthew wouldn't remember what happened at all—

Still fully clothed, Kiku turned to Francis, _this is your responsibility_, _you fix this, you finish what you've started._

Francis nodded slowly, vastly amused, and, settling Matthew again on his knee, he gently raked his long fingers through the boy's hair.

"Qu'est ce qu'il y a? Qu'est ce qui ne va pas?"

_What is it? What's wrong?_

"Ah," he said then, gently leaning in to lick at the corner of Matthew's mouth, where there still ran a slick line of fluid, and softly, he crooned,

"You really do taste so nice—"

Matthew allowed it, anguished and tired as he buried his head in the crook of Francis' neck,

"We'll take good care of him, won't we, Ivan,"

Francis crooned from behind the soft tresses of the boy's hair, and Ivan nodded in return,

_That's right, we will._

Kiku bowed slowly before taking his leave, and in his mind he thought, _this isn't right, _even if Westerners had strange, bizarre customs, Alfred should really set some boundaries on what goes on at his house—

Or was that, he thought as he made his way up the stairwell, was that merely an excuse for him to speak to Alfred at all—

As he approached the attic door, he could hear from behind it the distinct sounds of scraping, of shoving—

Of flesh striking flesh—

He blinked in confusion before bringing his hands to his mouth in surprise.

_The hot echo of breath—_

_Leave. Get out of there. For heaven's sake, run._

Kiku stood astonished at the partly-open attic door, hands pressed to his mouth and lips frozen mid-breath,

_Oh, Alfred was nothing like Matthew at all_.

He had Arthur bent over across a large chest on the floor, desperate, wet, exhausted, whispering things, inaudible, profane, wicked things, glasses off and eyes closed, lips buried red at the nape of his neck, whispering, biting—

Palm pressed tight against his mouth, Kiku stared with disbelief,

_No wonder they've been up here so long_,

He thought, and despite the unquestionable jealousy burning him throughout, he nevertheless couldn't help himself, face red with embarrassment and eyes closed in defeat as his thin, delicate frame fell in surrender against the corridor wall—

He bit hard into his palm, hair standing on end at the nape of his neck as he listened to the soft, desperate sounds emanating from within the attic nearby, slowly touching himself and stifling his voice.

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

"Alfred—_Alfred, stop—_"

Arthur's voice came hoarse and exhausted, and, laughing softly behind his ear, Alfred replied,

"You really want me to stop?"

He then moved into him particularly hard, and, crying in defeat, Arthur replied,

"_No_."

Alfred laughed, deliberately slowing down, and he pulled out until only the glistening tip of his member was in, and, out of breath, long arms clutching at the wooden chest beneath, Arthur whispered,

"_Please_."

"Yeah?"

"_Please, Alfred._"

"Please what?"

"_Please._"

"You want me to give it to you?"

Silence, but for the soft echo of breath—

Alfred didn't move, remaining frozen in place with just the tip barely in, hard and wet against Arthur—

"_Yes_,"

Came at last the response,

"Yes, I want you to—"

"Want me to what?" Alfred whispered, lips stretching into a devious grin against Arthur's ear, and, defeated, Arthur replied,

"—_I want you to give it to me—_"

Soft, throaty laughter as, very slowly, Alfred pressed his way in, and his voice was just barely audible then as he crooned,

"Like this?"

Long, yellow eyelashes came down over Arthur's eyes, and, very slowly, he exhaled,

"_Yesss—_"

Now Alfred's voice came soft and breathy, too; he began kissing the moist skin at the nape of Arthur's neck, long fingers closing around his glistening member in front, and he whispered,

"You dirty boy—"

"Quiet you,"

Arthur snapped, mostly helpless in his grasp, "Is that any way to speak to the guy who brought you up?"

Alfred only laughed, and, kissing him gently, replied,

"Are you gonna punish me?"

"That's right,"

Arthur replied, his voice hot and hoarse, wet with expiration as he moved back against Alfred, he'd punished him plenty over the years; when he grew up, on a regular basis Alfred had found himself helpless and angry, strewn across Arthur's lap at the mercy of his belt, for whatever bit of mischief he'd managed to stir.

Matthew would watch, eyes big and blue and thumb at his mouth, all too often the victim of the very schemes that Alfred devised—

But it wasn't for show, _go play outside, Matthew, _Arthur didn't do it to amaze and amuse.

He did it to discipline, with love all the same.

"You want me to spank you,"

Arthur whispered, even as he was helpless just then in his grasp, bent double beneath the wet thrust of his hips.

"Just like that, with your hand?"

Alfred replied, kissing him wetly, "no belt?"

"You want the belt?"

"I think I'd rather like it with your bare hand," Alfred said, the very notion bringing him closer to climax.

Outside the attic door, Kiku pressed his palm hard to his mouth, guarding himself with utmost care lest he made any sound. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the things he had heard, he couldn't help himself, he couldn't fight his arousal at the very thought—

He wanted so much to look, so much to watch as the two of them kissed, as Alfred at last released the other boy, and then climbed atop Arthur's lap, member sliding hard and wet across his legs as then there came the crisp, sharp echo of flesh striking flesh, emanating throughout the empty room.

"I rather think it's you who's the dirty boy here,"

Arthur whispered, and Alfred smiled softly to himself, secretly aroused by the way he pronounced the word _dirty_.

"_Ah, but you've always thought s—_"

He was cut off when again there came the sharp impact of Arthur's hand, and his voice resounded desperate and distinct when again he cried out—

"You're hard, Alfred," the other boy whispered, grinning with wicked satisfaction against the damp skin of his neck, "does this get you off?"

"I was already hard."

"The very thought of fucking me gets you hard, doesn't it."

"Yeah," Alfred breathed, "it does."

Arthur struck him again, and, against his naked thighs, Alfred was completely hard, his member hot and wet and large, and Arthur leaned in to kiss him, hungrily seizing his mouth, hand still gloved as he took hold of his sex.

Alfred's cries came muffled when he came at last, hot liquid running wet and white through the slender digits of Arthur's hand, dripping over the gloved surface and to his thighs beneath and to the floor from there, and, his own lips mere inches away from Alfred's, he brought his hand to the other boy's mouth, tonelessly whispering the single word,

"Suck."

Out of breath and exhausted, Alfred allowed the slick digits in past his lips, holding Arthur's hand in place with his own, and, blonde bunches of hair sticking damp to his forehead, he took them hungrily in, sucking hard, until at last he was done. Arthur then kissed him gently, murmuring in hushed tones,

"You want more?"

Without further encouragement, Alfred slowly climbed down from the other boy's lap, gazing up eagerly as he proceeded to part Arthur's thighs.

"Go on,"

Arthur said, fingers gentle in his hair, consoling almost as he urged him forth.

_To be continued…_


	9. Chapter 9

One night, very long ago, Arthur had come into the kitchen very, very late, awakened by odd sounds emanating from downstairs. In those days, he slept very lightly, roused by even the softest sounds in fear that, heaven forbid, something had happened to the boys.

Wearing only his pajama bottoms, he stopped in his tracks at the doorway, staring at two small figures staring back frozen from the floor. When at last he turned on the light, whatever he was going to say remained silently lodged at the back of his mouth.

There, in the midst of a pile of upturned containers and bins, were Alfred and Matthew, small children at that time, faces and arms covered completely with sticky goo, clutching tins of syrup and fudge and God knows what else.

"It's his fault...!"

Alfred said all at once, finger pointed accusingly at Matthew, who, like a deer in headlights, stared up at Arthur.

Arthur's eyes trailed over the counter top, where, disheveled and sticky, there lay several more containers and boxes in complete disarray. There were bits and pieces of food here and there, sweets and mint and cake; the boys had had themselves quite a party, it seemed.

Tired and annoyed, Arthur closed his eyes, hands clenching into fists.

"_Francis...!_"

He screamed at the top of his lungs,

"_Francis, you get your sodding arse down here....!_"

Matthew and Alfred exchanged bewildered glances, Alfred partway through transferring the large container of fudge in his arms into Matthew's lap, when, moments later, there arrived at the entrance a mostly asleep, mostly naked, disoriented and disheveled Francis at Arthur's side.

He stared lethargically into the room for several seconds before, all at once, his eyes went wide, and, mortified, he gazed over his once-perfect kitchen with pure panic.

_"...ma sauce aux canneberges...!"*1_

he cried in despair, and then, moments later,

"…_merde! Et ma crème brûlée…!"*2_

He rushed over to the boys, picking Alfred up and placing him on the counter, unraveling his sticky hands to find sprinkles and cinnamon and colorful bits squished in-between, and now Matthew had started crying, one hand still lodged inside the syrup bin in his lap.

"Oh, no, _no no no no...._"

Arthur sighed, hand at his forehead as he rubbed at his brow, "_I can't stand that sound..._"

"Tout ça, c'est ta faute,"*3

Francis informed him, beginning uselessly to rub at Alfred's sticky hands with a towel,

"Pourquoi tu ne les a pas surveillés?"*4

"_My_ fault...?" Came the reply, "and where exactly were you, Sleeping Beauty?"

Francis gazed at the sticky towel in his hand, and, irritated, he tossed it aside.

"You _know _these ingredients are very hard to find, that syrup was supposed to age for another several _months_."

Now that the two of them were fighting, Alfred had started crying, too, and, with complete exasperation, both Arthur and Francis stood in the midst of the room, clutching their ears and muttering profanities under their breath.

"Don't curse like that in front of the children...!"

Arthur snapped, finally stepping into the mess and plucking Matthew up from the floor.

The syrup container dropped from the boy's lap and spilled completely onto the tiles, to Francis' dismay.

"_Matthew_—_!_"

He cried in aggravation, but Matthew already was far beyond the point of listening, wailing with piercing, agonizing cries in Arthur's arms.

"We have to wash them,"

Arthur said to Francis, who was on his knees on the kitchen floor, attempting uselessly to pick up and collect the various tins and tubs.

"You're right," he replied at last, standing up slowly and placing the containers on the counter top.

And so, exhausted and sleep-deprived, Francis and Arthur took the boys upstairs and ran a bath, and then proceeded to wash them with quiet discontentment.

"You'll have a terrible stomach ache tomorrow,"

Arthur informed them unhappily, and both he and Francis were so far consumed with the prospect of having to clean the kitchen thereafter that neither had even begun to formulate the boys' punishment.

"Here,"

Francis said softly as he prompted Arthur to hand him the shampoo, and he proceeded in silence to wash Alfred and Matthew's hair. Arthur watched quietly, eyes heavy and tired as Francis' long fingers moved within the foam, slender and elegant, proficient, and somehow very gentle, and, for just a brief, transient moment, he forgot how angry the boys had made him, he forgot about the mess that wasn't going to clean itself—

—_he forgot how very much he hated Francis from the bottom of his heart_—

and, silently, washcloth still in hand, he leaned in and rested his head on Francis' shoulder.

Francis turned his head in surprise, mouth already agape with whatever insult or expletive he had prepared—

but he was tired, too; sighing to himself in resignation, he merely let it go, and he stared at Arthur for a long time before gently kissing his forehead, his hands still wet in Matthew's hair.

No words were exchanged for the rest of the bath, and after putting the boys to bed, Francis and Arthur went to sleep, as well, with the unspoken agreement to deal with the mess in the morning.

No words were exchanged, either, when, in bed, Francis began silently to kiss Arthur, and, without a word, Arthur began silently to kiss back.

_To be continued..._

_____

_A/N: Translation from French: _

_*1...my cranberry sauce...!_

_*2…shit! And my crème brûlée…!_

_*3 This is your fault_

_*4 Why didn't you watch them?_


	10. Chapter 10

"Matthew,"

Francis said, long fingers running through the silken strands of his hair,

"there's something I'd like you to do for Ivan."

There came the soft flutter of eyelashes against the skin of Francis' neck when Matthew then replied,

"What sort of thing?"

"_Don't play innocent_,"

Francis crooned, and his lips brushed wet past the boy's temple,

"I think you know exactly what sort of thing."

"Maybe you should demonstrate,"

Ivan said with vast amusement,

"since you're so good at it."

Francis' eyes darted immediately in Ivan's direction, revealing nothing to the audience as to whether or how Ivan had any real basis to make such a call.

"Maybe I should,"

came the reply, and, as Francis' eyes moved deliberately down to gaze directly at Ivan's trousers, as though mentally he were weighing the pros and cons, Ivan asked with a little smile,

"Are you a good bottom, France?"

For several moments, there was silence.

"A good bottom..."

Francis pondered aloud,

"maybe."

He gently released Matthew from within his grasp, motioning for him to follow as he climbed down from the couch and onto the floor. Ivan helpfully parted his knees as to give them both room, and, hand encouraging in Matthew's hair, Francis beckoned him forth, smile stretched all across his lips as he moved very close to Ivan's belt.

Proficient and practiced, he reached out slowly with the tip of his tongue, gazing directly at Ivan as he proceeded effortlessly to unravel the latch,

_You wanna fuck me, Ivan?_

His eyes seemed to say, and, unflinching, he pulled the belt out from the buckle with ease.

Francis turned to Matthew and said only,

"Go on,"

knowing full well that, this, too, isn't new to him—

But Matthew blushed at the prospect of doing it with others around, with others watching, and he never really knew if he was good at it at all—

With trembling fingers, he very gently proceeded forth, pointed tip of his nose searching in thin air as he drew closer to Ivan, delicate, fragile, eyelashes batting as he reached with his teeth for the metal zipper at the fly.

"That's a good boy,"

Francis crooned, long fingers combing through his hair as he looked on, the tip of his tongue trailing absently at his upper lip.

Very slowly, Matthew pulled down at the zipper, breath hot between his clenched teeth, and when it was completely undone, he felt the strangest urge to reach forth with his tongue and trace the white cotton beneath it.

He blushed furiously at the thought, but Francis was staring, too, and Ivan laughed softly to himself, because he'd seen this very look on countless faces before, the predatory gaze of admiration and envy; even with his briefs still on, it was obvious that he was quite generously endowed.

"Go on, I know you want to,"

Francis whispered to Matthew, because it was painfully visible in Matthew's eyes—

But Francis wanted it just as badly, and he watched with undiverted interest as, very gently, Matthew leaned forth to take the elastic band of Ivan's briefs in his mouth.

Matthew's long hair fanned like woven silk across Ivan's lap as he tugged the elastic down, and, impatient, Francis helped him along, slender digits of his hand prying at the cloth.

The ladies on the couch strained to see, and, ever the gentleman, Francis moved aside just enough so they could appreciate the magnitude and proportion of what none of them will get to touch. Hungary nodded with quiet acknowledgement, elegantly as though she were admiring a work of fine art or an evening at the opera, while, smiling to herself, Taiwan actually murmured, _wow_.

Only Liechtenstein stared transfixed, blushing about ten different shades of red as her small hands pressed tightly over her mouth.

_I can't believe I'm watching this_, she thought, _if Big Brother ever found out I watched this sort of thing, I would just die._

It would be years before she would admit to herself that she actually liked what she saw, or that this was okay.

Francis was first to lap at Ivan's member, and, with a quick intake of breath, Ivan smiled down at him, large hand brushing encouragingly through his hair.

He almost didn't want to release him from his mouth, but, mindful of Matthew, at last he let go, fluid glistening silver as it trailed from his lips. Matthew hesitated, but Francis urged him onward, lips moving wet and profane against the boy's ear as he crooned,

"That's for you, Canada."

When finally Matthew moved forth, Francis licked slowly at his ear, softly whispering,

"_Bon appétit._"

He watched with vast amusement as Matthew tentatively allowed the member into his mouth, long eyelashes flickering shut as he sucked very gently on him, carefully, and Ivan thought he was rather like Toris in this regard.

"Go on," Francis whispered, "you've done this plenty for Alfred."

There came a muffled sound from Matthew's throat, but before he could at all protest, Francis' hand came insistently at the back of his head, gently but firmly pressing him down, and Matthew gasped as he felt the member slide farther in.

It felt good, this he couldn't deny, not even to himself—

And he felt embarrassed, humbled and ashamed as he began to suck on him harder, of his own accord and to Francis' vast amusement. Francis kissed his temple, then his cheek, reaching forth to lap at the fluid at his chin, and, entirely content, Ivan caressed both their heads, as though routinely accustomed to this sort of attention.

"Where's your brother, anyway,"

Francis whispered,

"he could walk in at any minute and see you doing this**—**"

Before Matthew could reply, Francis slowly brought one finger to his entrance, sliding it in place as in warning. Matthew moaned against the hard flesh in his mouth, eyes wide at the prospect and hair swinging, and Francis moved very close to his ear now, words just barely audible as he breathed,

"You want me to lick you right here?

_You little slut._"

Matthew gasped with complete embarrassment, soft hair framing his reddening face as Francis slid his finger in.

"Enjoy yourself, France,"

Ivan laughed gently as he caressed Matthew's hair,

"When I'm finished with you—"

"—_I won't walk for a week?_"

Francis completed his sentence with a small grin.

"_You won't walk for a good month._"

"You hear that?" Francis said to Matthew with a warm chuckle, and he bit lightly on his ear before taking his place behind him.

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

It was a wretched thing, doing it alone.

No; that wasn't right. It was a normal thing, healthy even, something that everyone did but not everyone admitted to aloud, but it felt wretched when it was finished, and it felt wretched a hundredfold to be finished outside the attic door, painfully aware of one's solitude by the sounds still emanating from within.

_Voyeur. _

_Pervert._

Delicate eyelashes flickering, Kiku rose very slowly to his feet, heart still racing, fingers wet.

_What am I doing._

Filled all at once with self-reprimand, he made his way silently down the hallway toward the nearby bathroom, where, feeling like a criminal, he proceeded to wash his hands.

He gazed at his reflection from under the dark frame of his hair, carefully inspecting his face and clothes, just in case, just in case anything incriminating—

he couldn't get it out of his mind.

Alfred's voice.

He cried so helplessly in Arthur's arms, his words so desperate and soft—

_What's wrong with you. Don't think about that._

After drying his hands, he stepped out to the hall, quietly making his way toward the stairwell when something else caught his eye. Just a few feet down, door open partway, there it was--

Alfred's bedroom.

_Don't. _

One hand already on the rail, Kiku stared for a long time at the partly open door, before, despite himself, he began making his way there very slowly.

_This is wrong. This is so, so very wrong. _

He couldn't help himself.

Slowly, gentle fingertips outstretched, he nudged the door open farther.

Silence.

The light from the hallway stretched in a yellow wedge inside, dimly illuminating the outline of the furniture. There were shelves and a dresser with drawers, the iridescent digits of a radio alarm clock beside a large bed, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed also that the room was really quite a mess, with magazines and clothes and partway-open mail strewn here and there, and even a plate of partly-eaten food on the bedside table.

Kiku smiled, despite himself.

He felt a sudden urge to clean it all up, to carefully iron and fold the disheveled clothes and organize them neatly, carefully—

_lovingly_,

he realized in a moment of shame as the slender digits of his hand reached with quiet curiosity for one of the items on the bed.

A blue button-down shirt, wrinkled but somehow still crisp, and Kiku felt like an absolute criminal as he carefully held it open, dark eyelashes batting.

It was so big. The sleeves were so long.

The buttons were pale plastic at the cuffs, a small thread hanging loose just the slightest bit from within one. Closing his eyes, Kiku brought the shirt closer to himself, inhaling softly.

He envisioned in his mind Alfred taking it off, coming home after—

what—

after a summit meeting—

his large, long fingers working quickly at the buttons, absently pulling the thing off and—what—maybe tossing it haphazardly to the bed—

blonde hair ruffling in its wake, Alfred turning to the mirror to smooth it back down, carefully removing his glasses and setting them on the dresser—

hands already at his belt on his way out to the shower—

_What am I doing._

Out in the attic, they were likely still going at it.

Very quietly, Kiku sat down on the mattress; in one of the pillows there still was the visible depression of Alfred's head, and Kiku lay down very slowly, eyes open wide in the darkness and hands still clutching the shirt.

He remembered when, some time ago, Alfred had cheerfully approached him, lighthearted and absent of mind,

_Hey, Japan! Japan...!_

As Kiku turned with curious reserve, Alfred went on to ask what sort of food he ate, what he did to stay so thin, because Arthur had told him he was starting to put on weight.

Taken off guard, Kiku recalled awkwardly whatever it is he typically had for lunch, flattered and surprised when later Alfred asked if he could show him.

_It must've been nothing to him._

He went back to burgers in a week.

Some things couldn't be helped; Alfred's body was amazing all the same.

***

Downstairs, Matthew docilely bent over Ivan's lap, the boy's large fingers in his hair as he sucked gently on his member, obediently, even at the height of intoxication careful not to hurt him or bite.

Francis watched from behind him, slowly gathering Matthew's hair in his hands and sliding it over one of his shoulders so he could observe his face. He leaned down, and, hands firm on his thighs, began to lap very gently at the opening.

Matthew stiffened all at once, voice coming muffled against Ivan, and, laughing softly to himself, Francis proceeded farther, deliberately holding him in place, deliberately not touching his member just yet.

Ivan caressed Matthew's hair gently, his fingers large and warm, and it really did calm him down, it really did console him.

"Hurry up,"

He said, and Francis laughed, licking at his lips before replying,

"I'm not getting him ready for you, I'm getting him ready for me."

At this, Ivan couldn't help smiling. "You don't honestly think I was planning to take _him_? He'd never survive."

Gazing down at Matthew in mockery of good-hearted concern, Ivan gently brushed the back of his hand against the boy's cheek.

"You want me to hurry up so you could take me," Francis said, and Ivan nodded with knowing wisdom.

He smiled at Francis, with the warmest, sweetest, and utmost regard then when he replied,

"A little whore like you could handle it much better, I'm sure."

"I'd hardly say _little._"

And with that, Francis gently leaned forth, sensuously, and lips brushing wet, he slowly kissed the slick opening.

"_Please don't hurt me_,"

Matthew whispered, and he wasn't fully aware, he wasn't fully awake, it was something ancient, something he'd said to Alfred many times—

not as a genuine request or matter or preference, but because it was something Alfred liked to hear.

_Go on._

_Go on, say it, _Alfred would whisper, words inaudible with the flow of expiration, and he would kiss Matthew, sleepily, feverishly, already aroused and completely hard behind the flannel of his pajamas, _say it, you sound so sweet—_

_What?_ Matthew would ask, dreaming flicker of eyelashes batting innocent and soft, _what, don't hurt me?_

_Yeah, just like that—_

Francis and Ivan laughed; it was very cute, charmingly docile,

"He taught you well, your brother," Francis crooned, moving back as he began to unfasten his belt.

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

Matthew's voice came hoarse and brittle when finally Francis moved in.

Bent on all fours with his head in Ivan's lap, his lips still glistened wet with fluid as he cried out.

"You're supposed to keep his mouth occupied, Ivan,"

Francis sighed, slender hips moving slowly, until the bony iliac crests were pressing into the curve of Matthew's behind, hard enough to leave marks.

Matthew's voice could be heard as far down as the kitchen, closed door and all, and, long since finished with the dishware, Toris sat silently across from Felix, pretending he didn't know exactly what was going on in the other room.

"W...would you like some more..coffee..."

he murmured awkwardly to his counterpart, who, uncertain as to what the matter was, but nevertheless aware that there was, in fact, some matter, nodded quietly as he slid his cup across the way.

Out in the living room, Francis slowly pulled Matthew upright from behind until his back lay against Francis' chest, and the boy released Ivan's member with great reluctance as the fluid trailed silver out the corner of his mouth.

"Touch yourself, Matthew,"

Francis crooned, voice breathy as slowly he moved into him, and, attempting to stifle his voice, Matthew tentatively slid his long fingers around the hard insistence of his member. Over his shoulder, Francis watched with vast amusement, hips moving gradually and long hair pouring over the boy's shoulder.

"You're very wet,"

he observed, words issuing forth like some sort of reprimand, and, suddenly taking Matthew's hand by the wrist, he pulled it upward, bringing it to Matthew's mouth.

Before the boy in his arms could protest or express any opinion at all, Francis pressed the digits in, and Matthew tensed all at once as he moaned around them.

"Is it good?"

France crooned behind the shell of his ear, still holding tightly to Matthew's wrist, hips sill swaying.

He laughed softly without letting him respond, still not releasing him as he whispered,

"You're so tight, Matthew. Does Alfred really play with you enough?"

Ivan was absently stroking himself as he watched this unfold, and the girls eyed him with blatant desire. What a waste; any of them would gladly have volunteered to help out.

"I beg your pardon,"

Liechtenstein very softly spoke up, voice quivering silent and hand politely raised, and, turning his gaze with much cordial attention, Francis waited for her to go on.

"_—but would Mr. France and Mr. Canada please attend to Mr. Russia—_"

Hungary stared at her younger counterpart, eyebrows rising to her hairline with combined amusement and surprise, but then Taiwan spoke up, as well,

"But don't stop what you're doing now."

Entirely collected and composed, Francis grinned, all charm and warm regard as he bowed forth a bit, Matthew's wrist still tight in his hand.

"How careless of me,"

He crooned, winking at them as he bit gently on Matthew's ear.

"Apologize to the ladies, Canada,"

he whispered, and, murmuring something indecipherable around the digits in his mouth, Matthew made a feeble attempt at escape.

"What's that?"

Francis asked in low tones, and, defeated, Matthew gazed over his shoulder at him, eyes shimmering liquid blue.

"_I can't believe you guys_,"

Hungary mumbled, but, she, too, continued staring, transfixed.

Very slowly, so that the girls could see, Francis pulled Matthew's fingers out the boy's mouth, trailing slick and wet, and Matthew coughed in relief and aftershock when at last his mouth was free, soft strands of his hair hanging damp at his brow.

Francis brought Matthew's hand back to his neglected anatomy, closing the long fingers around it again as he murmured at his ear,

"Apologize, go on."

"_I'm sorry_,"

Matthew whispered, voice very brittle and soft, and he gasped when Francis proceeded then to slide the slick digits along the aching length of his member.

"That's a good boy,"

Came the reply, and he kissed his temple in reward.

Francis slowly pulled out, breath coming hot and head tilted downward as he watched, and he gave Matthew a brisk slap to the behind as he said,

"Go on, _attend to Mr. Russia_."

"_Ahh_—_!_"

Matthew cried, startled by the impact as he turned absently to rub at the tender skin there.

"_Mind your manners, go on_."

Murmuring in apology, Matthew rose slowly to his feet, the fluid trailing wet down the length of his thighs as he approached Ivan. The older boy took him with knowing gentleness into his arms, pulling him inward by the hand and adjusting him in his lap.

Matthew didn't need to be told how to proceed from there.

His long arms came carefully around Ivan's neck, and, yellow hair cascading over the bony angles of his shoulders, he began very slowly to kiss him, passionately, lovingly, with tenderness that came second nature to him but that was cultivated over the years with deliberate intent.

Ivan smiled in approval, proficient as he kissed him back and deliberately not entering in, tempting though the prospect were.

"That's very nice," Francis said in appreciation, observing for a few moments before taking his place behind Matthew. Bending his knees just a bit, he slid one arm around the younger boy, gazing downward as he adjusted himself in place.

He moved inward even as Matthew was kissing Ivan still, so that this time at least his voice came stifled and not quite so distinct and loud.

Matthew clung on desperately, tensely, hair swinging and eyes tightly closed, and, hips swaying fluid from behind, Francis waited patiently for him to come up for air so that he could kiss Ivan, too.

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

_(Many years in the past, when the boys were in their teens_—_)_

Long fingers firm around the metal doorknob, Matthew stepped into Alfred's room, twisting the handle shut and, staring at the other boy, he stuck his tongue out in disgust, finger pointing toward his throat in pretense of throwing up.

"_Bleugh!_"

He exclaimed, eyes rolling behind his spectacles as he let go of the door.

Alfred smirked.

"They at it again?"

he asked, looking up from whatever book he was reading, and Matthew nodded.

"On the goddamn dining room table."

"Ewww..."

"And I was like _right there_."

"Gross."

"Papa was all, _oh put on the waiter outfit..._"

"Ahh! Shut up!" Alfred cried out, laughing in disgust as he cupped his hands over his ears.

"Yeah, why should I have to suffer alone,"

Matthew replied, plopping down on Alfred's bed. He reached for his brother's wrists, forcibly trying to pry his hands away from his ears as he teased,

"_Ehhh, don't talk about the waiter outfit in front of Alfred_,"

and then, imitating a lower voice,

"_that's Matthew, you moron._"

"What's _the waiter outfit_,"

Alfred laughed as he wrestled Matthew off,

"No, wait, I don't wanna know."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Sick."

"I was gonna go get something from the kitchen, too, but I just totally lost my appetite."

"I thought they were fighting, anyway,"

Alfred said, rearranging himself on the bed and neatly smoothing out the edges of his book,

"Wasn't England calling France an incompetent...something or other..."

"A _sod_," Matthew replied as he took his place next to Alfred, "a_ daft sod_."

"A _sodding wanker_."

"You're a _sodding wanker_."

"_Francis, you sodding wanker...!_"

Alfred laughed, imitating Arthur's voice as he rolled onto his back,

"It's your fault the boys have no sense of discipline...!"

Matthew smirked, soft hair swaying as he climbed atop his brother's slender form.

"_It's your boy who has no sense of discipline...!_"

he laughed, deliberately imitating Francis' accent,

"_That Alfred...he's a piece of work!_"

Alfred rolled his eyes sarcastically, and, now badly imitating Arthur's English accent, he replied,

"My boy Alfred is _awesome_."

Matthew stared down for a few seconds before bursting into laughter,

"He would so never say that."

"He's _wicked_," Alfred laughed, "he's just _brilliant_ and _ace_."

"He's a _dumbass_ is what he is."

"You're a dumbass."

At this, Matthew laughed, white teeth flashing as he grinned, and, hair sweeping awkwardly in his wake, Alfred reached up to kiss him then.

"_Those boys have no discipline...!_"

he whispered softly, lips moving wet against Matthew's mouth.

Matthew kissed back, long fingers delicate, tentative as they brushed against Alfred's stomach, unintentionally, innocent, sharp intake of breath as they swept unawares past the hard insistence at his trousers—

"S—_sorry...!_"

he sputtered, withdrawing his hand all at once.

Beneath him, Alfred gazed up with childlike curiosity, eyes blinking innocent behind transparent lenses of glass.

"I didn't mind,"

he said softly, and the two gazed at each other in silence for a long time.

"It..." he started again, and Matthew's blue eyes scanned slowly across his face, "it's just a little—sensitive—"

Very gently, he took Matthew's hand, and both of them turned slowly to gaze as he brought it to his trousers again, carefully pressing over the surface.

Matthew flushed, averting his gaze as he bit down on his lower lip, but he didn't let go.

"Is..." he asked softly, with gentle curiosity, "Is that nice...?"

Exhaling in response, Alfred nodded, yellow hair scattering on the mattress below.

"It's nice, yeah."

He grinned then, but without any sarcasm or mockery.

"Matthew, you're so gentle,"

he murmured with quiet wonderment.

Matthew's glasses had slipped a little, and he reached in a manner of habit to push them back up the bridge of his nose.

"Well, I don't wanna—"

he said, stopping himself partway.

Alfred gazed up in silence.

"You don't wanna hurt me?"

Matthew smiled, laughing a little. His hair bounced as he nodded.

"It doesn't hurt. It feels nice."

Alfred laughed, too, a tender laugh, gentle and honest, and, voice childlike, he asked,

"do you want me to do it to you?"

Grinning, eyes tightly closed, Matthew shook his head, _no_.

Alfred smiled, propping himself up by the elbows as he inspected the other boy's face.

"You're too shy."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Okay, then."

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

Low sound of chatter from the other hall.

In the kitchen, water running.

Metallic gears turning, large and heavy, within the ancient grandfather clock.

And breath, expiration humid with fervor, exertion fluid with want, flesh striking wet against flesh, naked, obscene—

Matthew could hear very clearly the things Ivan said to Francis, just over his shoulder, just outside his ear, even as Francis gave it to Matthew, even as he held him securely in place with those long-fingered hands, Ivan spoke to him profane things, terrible things, things he planned to do to him once he finished with Matthew.

Innocent boy like that, it just wasn't right.

Certainly, Alfred didn't play this dirty with Matthew, certainly he handled his brother with delicate affection and care—

He wasn't afraid enough, he wasn't defensive enough, not like Toris, Ivan thought, not the way Toris trembled in his arms—

Matthew was docile, trusting, affectionate—

Perpetually unnoticed, but not tormented, treated clearly with a careful hand—

_Please don't hurt me_ for the sake of charm alone, because it made him that much cuter, and stemming not from any actual experience with hurt—

Oh, Francis had spanked him, Matthew had his fair share growing up, not quite as often as Alfred, but enough, no less.

_You, too?_

Alfred would ask, the both of them in trouble, and Matthew would nod his head in silence, clutching the sheets as he curled in his bed, skin still sore from the taste of reprimand.

_Yeah, _"Yeah, me, too."

"I talked back to England."

Silence.

"I wandered out to the lake by myself."

"That's stupid, shouldn't get a spanking for that."

Matthew had said nothing, his little fingers closing around the white edge of his blanket.

"Does it still hurt?" Alfred had asked.

"A little."

"Yeah, me, too."

Even as Matthew blushed against the crook of Ivan's neck, embarrassed to hear all the terrible things he said to Francis, the terrible things he planned to do, even as he hung his head, breath coming wet against the hard muscles, he was all affection, trusting innocence and warmth.

"Is it really okay for him to hear all this,"

Ivan asked, lips moving slick against Francis',

"about how I'm going to bend you over and fuck you?"

"What, you mean—"

Francis asked, long fingers tilting Matthew's chin upward and licking at his lips from behind,

"—you mean like I'm doing to him now?"

"No, no,"

Ivan laughed softly, knowingly, and his large hand seized Matthew's member, wet and slick, so that Matthew cried aloud against Francis' mouth,

"Bend you over upside-down."

"Oh, like we did to him before?"

And then, turning to Matthew again, Francis crooned,

"You liked that, didn't you,"

his voice empathic and sweet, like he were speaking to a child, and Matthew nodded, blushing even as he replied that he did.

"We didn't give it to him that way,"

Ivan laughed, "that's how you're gonna get it, France."

Francis grinned,

"True enough."

He was breathing hard now, long hair swinging and arms growing tight around Matthew's abdomen, and Matthew cried and gasped beneath him, a slender instrument of pleasure, coyly responsive to every maneuver and every deliberate strum,

"Again, Matthew?"

Francis teased, long digits of his hand interlaced in Ivan's around the boy's member,

"Are you gonna come again, so soon?"

And, embarrassed beyond words, Matthew nodded shyly, _yes_.

"_Matthew, you little slut..._"

"Spoken like a true expert," Ivan laughed, "Francis, you're about to come, too, isn't that right—"

Ivan's large fingers closed around Francis' throat as he drew him very close to himself, and, grinning, he mouthed,

"Before he will."

In Ivan's grasp, Francis nodded, _yes_, the very gesture bringing him ever closer—

"Go on," Ivan whispered, words hot vapor at Francis' mouth, "give it to him, _Francis, you little whore_—"

It didn't take much more than that before Francis came, long limbs stiffening all around Matthew's slender frame, head buried in the white expanse of his neck, arms wrapped all around—

The clear fluid hot and slick as it trailed glistening down the naked length of Matthew's thigh—

Francis exhausted, delirious, spent, body limp and lank around the younger boy when there suddenly came the loud, distinct echo of flesh striking flesh when Ivan slapped hard at his behind, _pull out, move, you're not done yet, France_.

Exhausted, Francis gasped, in pleasure almost, _again, spank me again, Lord knows, it's been a while_.

He slowly pulled out, just barely standing, and Ivan motioned for Matthew to sit on his knee. Matthew did, swallowing hard and pained from aftershock, his thighs entirely slick and wetting Ivan's clothes beneath.

Next, Ivan motioned for Francis to come closer, and then he reached up to seize a handful of his hair, pulling him down to his knees.

Francis cried with a mixture of pain and surprise—and also an unmistakable note of pleasure—when Ivan forced him to Matthew's member.

"You did such a lovely job with him earlier,"

Ivan crooned,

"So proficient at that sort of thing."

Matthew blushed furiously as he listened to Ivan speak to Francis this way—

France—

_Papa. _

But before he could speculate on the matter to any considerable extent, there came again Francis' hot mouth on him, and he cried out, forgetting any humiliation in the face of arousal—

Ivan held Francis safely in place, warm, large arms, one hand still in his hair, steadying him and holding it back so he could see—

So they both could see—

And Matthew actually watched, eyes large and childlike and blue behind the gentle sway of his hair, biting down on his lip as his eyebrows furrowed and—

Even Matthew's long fingers clutched hard at Francis' hair when he came, voice coming desperate and soft, angelic, a sweet, innocent cry—

Ivan held Francis down for a long time, until at last Matthew was subdued, and then, very slowly, again pulled him up, reaching to lick at his lips.

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15

"Like this. Does this hurt, like this?"

"Like—"

Matthew on Alfred's desk, Arthur and Francis away, many winters ago, Alfred's breath hot and hesitant over Matthew's naked shoulder, long fingers partway inside him, Matthew's arms wrapped around Alfred's neck, tight against the moist skin beneath—

"Does it hurt?"

"It—ah—! Yeah, yes, it hurts—"

"Kay, I'll pull out—"

"N—no, it's okay, keep—ah! Okay, okay, pull out."

"Okay."

Matthew rested his head on Alfred's shoulder, long hair pouring like yellow silk over the angular bend—

"Okay—okay, I'm okay, try again—"

He whispered, and, swallowing quietly, Alfred replied,

"You sure?"

He was hard, painfully hard behind the restraint of his trousers, aroused without regret and without shame, Matthew was used to it by now.

"Yeah, I'll tell you if—"

"Okay."

Breath coming warm, humid against Matthew's ear, Alfred very gently slid his finger in again, Matthew helpfully parting his thighs, and the long arms tightened all around his neck, he gasped, brief inspiration through clenched teeth, and Matthew, _Matthew, your glasses are digging into my skin_—

"S—sorry—"

Matthew breathed, without any intention of doing anything about it.

Then, head still tight against his brother's shoulder, blue eyes shot open, big and astonished, and, mouth frozen agape, he stared forth from beneath diffuse strands of hair—

Alfred smiled, gently kissing the top of his head.

"That it?"

He asked softly, and Matthew's stunned silence was confirmation enough.

His long, slender fingers clenched hard at Alfred's hair, glasses still digging, lips still apart—

"So you do like this, then,"

Alfred whispered, gently stroking his fingers up, and Matthew managed to nod.

***

Ivan and Francis made out for a long time.

Almost as though, up to this moment deprived, Ivan wanted at last to taste Matthew on his lips. Francis still had most of his clothes on, and, tapping him gently at the fly, Ivan said,

"Take this off."

The women watched with uninterrupted attention as Francis' large hands reached expertly for his trousers, sliding them off with knowing proficiency, accustomed as he were at undressing to please.

And please he did; Ivan was quite amused, reaching with one fluid motion to pull him into his lap, and then, sliding his hair behind one ear, he mused aloud,

"How shall we do it, then, France?"

France didn't need any further encouragement; he laughed quietly to himself, knowingly, _you're in luck, ladies, you're in for quite a show. _He straddled Ivan's hips from both sides, hair pouring forth as he kissed him, large hands prying away at the long scarf.

"_You wanna tie my wrists with this_,"

he crooned, and it came as a simple fact more than a question.

Even Matthew watched transfixed as _Papa_ held out his hands, and Ivan followed through.

"What else do you wanna do to me?"

Francis breathed, lips moving millimeters from Ivan's,

_What else do you wanna do?_

Arthur and Francis on the kitchen table, the cue for Matthew and Alfred to leave, a routine, familiar sight, that's how it was, Arthur and Francis taking turns humiliating and undoing one another, that's life.

_Curse that wine bastard_, Arthur would mumble from over a bottle of Scotch, defeated, exhausted and spent and drunk enough to admit this aloud, _curse him, he really is good._

It wasn't long before Ivan had Francis at his mercy, upside-down as promised, Francis' long hair scattering on the floor and swaying forth with each thrust, entertainment at its best, Ivan's strong fingers firm at the narrow angles of Francis' hips, smile quiet and serene even as he had at him.

It really did hurt when first Ivan moved in, Francis smiling with masochistic pleasure, arms around Ivan's neck and wrists bound, allowing him to guide himself in slowly, Russia's pale eyelashes coming down in a long moment of satisfaction.

"_You weren't kidding_,"

France exhaled slowly, trying to remember when last he was so exquisitely impaled—

Francis' blue eyes, gazing silently at Matthew, silent and poignant, seductive, hair swinging from over Arthur's shoulder, Matthew's hand tightening in Alfred's, trembling wet, _we shouldn't be here, Al, let's get the hell away_, both then fully-grown, neither speaking up, both staring, staring, frozen curiously in place, and neither Francis nor Arthur asked them to leave, Francis merely stared—

Alfred's hand came slowly over Matthew's eyes, _perverts_, he whispered, and, sensation returning at last, he pulled hard at Matthew's hand, _come on, let's get out of here, let's bolt._

No one covered Matthew's eyes now, and he watched everything, eyes big and curious, unquestionably aroused, he watched with every bit as much interest as the ladies as Ivan held Francis in his arms, dominant and strong, as though Francis were weightless, a slender, nubile toy hanging helpless in his grasp—

No one heard the doorbell when it rang, no one heard the knocks, no one paid attention as, exhausted of waiting, Vash at long last allowed himself in, and, on entering the living room, stood frozen at the entrance, astonished and blushing crimson red—

His eyes met Liechtenstein's and, for several silent moments, eternity seemed to pass—

Time seemed to have stopped as he strode across the living room, grasping his sister by the wrist, hard, unable even to find words—

Liechtenstein panicked, mouth frozen in horror and mind racing through explanations, when Switzerland's voice broke the spell, he marched up to Francis and Ivan and hissed aloud,

"_What in the hell is the meaning of this...! Is this the kind of party this is! If—_"

But his words were cut short when, still in Ivan's arms, Francis seized his mouth, passionate, aggressive, Ivan helpfully holding Vash in place—

Still captive at the wrist, Liechtestein gasped, eyes darting from Francis to her brother and back.

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

The quiet motion of gears turning in the ancient hallway clock.

Somewhere overhead, a helicopter flying past.

Eyes tightly shut, stiffly writhing, Vash resisted in Ivan's grasp, low sounds of protest, muffled and forlorn against Francis' lips.

Very gently, Ivan kissed his neck, tongue trailing up toward his ear, and, biting at the cartilage shell, he whispered something very softly.

Vash's eyes went big, he tried to no avail to turn away, Liechtenstein could see that he was blushing.

Beside Taiwan, Hungary gazed forth straight-faced, entirely composed; _there was something she knew._

In Ivan's grasp, Vash surrendered at last, but, as soon as Francis let go, his green eyes shot a death glare directly at Matthew.

He wasn't struggling anymore, but, tight rein on his temper, he hissed to him angrily,

"You've got some nerve, America."

Matthew blinked.

"_I'm not_—"

Ivan's hand came down on his mouth.

"_Right now,_" he whispered,"_yes, you are_."

Even Liechtenstein didn't correct her brother.

Ivan's lips stretched in an evil grin, "_so act the part_."

Matthew blushed.

When Ivan released Vash, the boy didn't take his sister and bolt. He weakly released Liechtenstein's wrist, and, absently stroking the place where he'd grasped her, she gazed silently at him, and then at the others.

_That was Canada_, she would tell him at some later time.

"Let's get this over with,"

Vash murmured, eyes closed with annoyance, voice quivering with rage contained.

This, Elizabeta knew, was a matter of blackmail.

She would never have known, nobody would have known, if Roderich hadn't told her.

Late into the night, helpless and subject to the ministrations of her hand, yes, _yes, we did, _voice defenseless, vulnerable, curiously soft, _what would you like to know. _

Oh, she knew in explicit, elaborate detail about Roderich and Vash. Francis and Ivan had nothing on the extent of debauchery that once upon a time transpired there.

Certainly, Vash wouldn't want his sister to know.

"_Don't screw this up, Matthew_," Ivan whispered, "_go on_."

Go on?

Did Alfred and Vash—

"Curse you,"

Vash whispered, eyes closed in irritation, hands tightening into fists,

"Don't make me do this, myself."

"_Oh, God_—"

Liechtenstein breathed, heart racing as she watched this unfold. _Did Alfred and Big Brother_—_?_

_Alfred, you beast_, Matthew thought, and, slowly rising from the couch, he took his place across from Vash, towering a good height above him.

He never was—

He never could—

Taiwan gazed from Hungary to the boys and back.

_What's going on? What_—?

All eyes were on Matthew as, very slowly, gently, his long fingers came against the bony angle of Vash's chin.

Too gently; that's not how Alfred would do it.

Nobody knew better than Matthew just how Alfred would do it.

He tilted the boy's chin up in his hand, grinning, _actually grinning_, and leaned down all at once to seize his mouth.

Vash moaned helplessly, but he didn't resist; _Liechtenstein can see the whole thing_, he thought, _what a complete nightmare. _

Why is she watching this, anyway. Curse you, _damn you_, America.

_You like him. Don't you._ Roderich would say, elegant and quiet, and Elizabeta wouldn't reply, but he wasn't mad, he wasn't upset, _Yeah_, he would say very softly, _I like him, too_.

Ivan and Francis watched with vast interest, Francis' wrists still bound behind Ivan's neck. _Would you look at that_.

Canada, Matthew, dominating. What a joke.

More curious still was the fact that Vash was unquestionably following suit, complacent and reserved as Matthew slowly lowered him onto the couch, naked as the day he was born as he climbed in Vash's lap,

_What'll it be, Switzerland, however shall we work this out. _

Taiwan pulled Liechtenstein back onto the couch, both she and Hungary afraid that she'll ruin things, try to save her brother or God knows what.

But Liechtenstein made no such attempt; her gaze turning from Matthew to her brother and back, she thought for the moment that she loved them both.

Unbeknownst to Matthew, he was far more gentle than Alfred could ever have been, and, slowly giving in, Vash blushed furiously as he thought,

_Damn you, Alfred_—

—_you're far more delicate this time. _

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

The boy in his arms was afraid.

There was the warm haze of alcohol, the whispering sounds of an audience murmuring, watching, breath, hot breath of expiration, trembling, Matthew was lightheaded, the room spinning, everything was warm, warm, but he could tell even through the curious fog of intoxication that the boy in his arms was afraid.

Alfred wasn't a comforting presence to everyone.

Matthew meant to dominate, he meant to act the part, but he found himself kissing Vash very gently, empathically, _please don't be afraid, please don't feel so down_—

He kissed his temple, his forehead and his eyes, there was something going on, something dirty, something unfair, Matthew didn't know what—

"_There's someone, isn't there_," Matthew whispered very softly, words ghosting immaterial just outside Vash's ear, someone_ you still really love—_

Quietly, discreetly, Vash nodded, transparent eyelashes batting, yes, _yes—_

What happened, Matthew wondered, _I'm sorry, I have to do this as not to raise suspicion—_

His hand traveled gently to Vash's chest, down to his abdomen and his thigh, he was trembling, himself, because this wasn't fair—

Of its own accord, Vash's chin tilted up, the bony angle of the mandible sharp underneath his white skin, his lips moved silently behind the soft cascade of Matthew's hair,

"_You're Canada, aren't you_—"

Shivers, traveling electric all through Matthew's skin, he thought he stopped breathing, he thought he would cry, he wanted to fling his arms all around the boy's neck and cover him with kisses, you knew, _you knew my name—_

"I've never done this before," he whispered, "I've never been on top, please show me how—"

Vash's cheeks flushed crimson and warm, his eyes darted aside,

"If you let me lie down, I'll tell you what to do," he whispered, "Think you can get me a drink—"

"They're whispering, what are they whispering?" Taiwan nudged Hungary, and, still in Ivan's arms, Francis delivered a solid smack to Matthew's behind.

"No whispering, America…!"

Matthew startled, spinning around and rubbing absently at his rear end, before, impressively in character, he muttered angrily to France,

"What gives, that hurts, you know…!"

And then, without giving Francis a chance to respond,

"Also, I want some more wine."

Ivan and Francis exchanged amused glances, and, curious to see where this will go, Francis handed Matthew the bottle.

_No glass…?_ Vash wondered, but, seeing the present state of affairs, he didn't bother to ask.

"_Here's how they gave it to me_—"

Matthew whispered very softly. He tilted the bottle to his lips and knelt down, eyes searching Vash's face as if asking for approval, and when the other boy raised his face toward him, Matthew hesitated.

He hadn't done this before, either.

The liquor burned on his tongue—just wine, but liquor no less—and, fingers trembling, he gently brushed Vash's hair away from his face, intimidated, stalling—

Green eyes gazed up at him in quiet irritation, _go on, then_, he seemed to say, _get this over with_.

Slowly, slowly, Matthew knelt further down, eyes batting nervously behind his glasses, and, fingers very gentle at Vash's chin, he kissed him at last.

The boy's lips parted expectantly, _that's my boy, _Francis thought, _you've learned well_.

Matthew carefully allowed the fluid to pour into his mouth, relieved almost to feel the bitter taste decrease, and his lips clung lingering to Vash's, feeling curiously aroused when he felt his tongue wander into his mouth, proficiently, drinking from him—

He was so passionate—

"_Tell me what to do_,"

Matthew whispered, lips moving wetly against his, in silence,

_Tell me what you want—_

Eyes closed, Vash felt the wine drain slowly inside, along his teeth and his tongue, _it's just wine, this isn't strong enough, I'd need—_

"_More—_"

He whispered to Matthew, the wine trailing in a purple stream out the corner of his mouth,

"_Give me more—_"

"Get lost, you guys,"

Matthew said to Francis and Ivan without turning around, and the two of them stared at each other, eyebrows raised with infinite amusement; _we shouldn't have told him to act the part_¸ Ivan thought, _I never thought he actually had it in him—_

But they did get up and moved to the next chair over, where Francis settled luxuriantly in Ivan's lap, the both of them now too amused by what Matthew and Vash were doing to indulge for the time being in each other.

Very slowly, Matthew laid Vash down on the couch along its length, hand trembling visibly as he reached again for the wine. _I hate the way this tastes_, he thought, decanting the bottle again to his lips.

The second time went better, the liquid burned less, Vash guided him carefully, expertly, and Matthew found himself wondering what had happened, what the story was, why his eyes were so tense and severe—

"_Undress me_,"

Came the quiet instructions, silent and succinct, and Matthew nodded; this was something Alfred had asked of him many times, _undress me, make it look like you don't want to, make it look like you're afraid—_

Was this how he should do it now?

No, Alfred would want to, Alfred would be aggressive, insistent, direct—

It turned him on just to think about it.

Matthew swallowed hard and, composing himself, he reached for Vash's belt, wishing so much that his hands didn't tremble as he fussed with the buckle, and, irritated, Vash whispered,

"_H..hey…!_"

_I'm sorry_, Matthew thought, wishing for the time being that he didn't have to do this, that he knew his way around, that—

_That the two of them were alone—_

He gasped all at once, realizing curiously that what bothered him wasn't that he was being made to play to an audience, or that he was being taken for everyone's plaything, or even that he was degraded and spanked and ordered around and abused—

_No, he very much enjoyed the attention, in fact—_

What he didn't like, he realized with a start, was that he and this boy weren't together alone. That this was an act. That it wasn't for real.

That here was someone still very broken inside, tormented, tightly disciplined and intricately wound, but bleeding, secretly forlorn—

And Matthew couldn't pry, he couldn't speak of it, he couldn't ask—

All he could do was kiss him, hold him, try to console him as best he could without being too obvious that _all that he really wanted to do was console_.

_To be continued…_


	18. Chapter 18

"In the cupboard, above the tin containers—other tin containers—no—Alfred—"

Many years ago, Arthur and Alfred stood at the kitchen counter, Arthur with an apron, Alfred with a shirt full of crumbs.

"This?"

Alfred asked, large hands holding up a transparent jar of glass, and Arthur looked up, reaching to take it from him.

"Yeah, thanks, that's the one—"

"What is this, Francis' weird cooking herbs?"

"_Herbs_,"

Arthur replied, emphasizing the _h_, "it's pronounced _hhherbs._"

"Whatever."

"Now, how much does it say to add…"

Arthur gazed into an open cooking book, hands wiping absently at his apron, and, at his side, Alfred already was sampling the dough. Without looking up, Arthur reached to slap his hand away.

"You'll get a stomach ache, don't eat that."

"But I'm hungry."

"You're gonna have to wait. Now be a good boy and go wash up."

Alfred sighed, fully grown and already towering far above Arthur in height but still under his care. He proceeded out of the kitchen and up the stairwell, beginning to unbutton his shirt as he opened the door to the bathroom. There were no towels on the rack.

None in the hallway closet, either, maybe in Arthur and Francis' bedroom—

Over the years, Alfred had developed quite an aversion to going in there. It wasn't that their perverse escapades were in any way restricted to the bedroom, but there was something about the fact that they slept together—

In the same bed—

Almost every night—

No matter how much they hated and loathed one another, how much they quarreled and fought, nearly every night—

This was more than just sex—

_There's no love relationship that isn't also a love-hate relationship._

Alfred stepped inside, composing himself as he headed for the cupboard; at least there were some towels inside. Towels, and Francis' assorted silken robes, and also Arthur's pajamas—

_Did you have a nightmare, Al? Would you like to sleep in our bed tonight?_

Light blue pajamas, dark blue stripes, cotton. Slender arms that once were so strong, so large and protective around him, the soft scent of cotton, the fresh feel of _clean_—

There's no way a shirt this size could fit Alfred now, it was far too small.

Forget it. Alfred grabbed one of the towels off the shelf before closing the cupboard door and heading back out of the room. From downstairs there emanated the familiar smell of food burning, and also the sweet smell of tea, the sounds of dishware clinking in the kitchen, Arthur humming to himself—

Alfred tossed his clothes to the floor and stepped into the bath, dully aware that he was somehow dissatisfied.

***

He left a puddle on the bathroom floor. He left his clothes there in a pile, wet tracks in the hall on the way to his room, yellow hair stuck in the drain.

"Alfred, can't you clean up once in a while," Matthew sighed as he stepped into the bathroom after him, "your stuff's all over the place…"

"Yeah, sorry," Alfred said as he shut his bedroom door, rubbing the towel in his hair before tossing it aside and lying down on his bed.

"Alfred…! Matthew! Supper…!"

There came Arthur's voice at some later time, and Francis was home by then, Alfred could hear them arguing, Francis helpfully offering input on the food Arthur made, Arthur retaliating, the fight that followed after that, just like every night.

Arthur called his name three times before finally Alfred came trotting down the steps, properly washed up and dressed, like a good boy.

"Help your brother set the table," Arthur said, polishing utensils before thrusting them in Alfred's hands, and Alfred quietly complied, setting them down and then helping to carry out one dish of charred food after the next.

He wasn't happy.

Francis wasn't happy either, slowly wading his fork through the mound of goo on his plate, wondering to himself why Arthur didn't just wait for him to get home and make a proper meal.

"S…so…!"

Matthew smiled nervously, trying to lighten the mood,

"I beat Alfred at hockey today…!"

"Oh, good for you, Matthew—!"

Arthur said, patting him gently on the shoulder.

"Yeah," Alfred deadpanned, "tell him what we did after that."

Matthew flushed all at once, growing silent as he stared at his plate.

Francis' gaze rose from his food, wandering from Alfred to Matthew and back.

"So, what's in this, Arthur," he said, "it's very…_interesting_…"

Alfred and Matthew ate dutifully while Arthur glared at Francis across the table.

"Funny you should say that, considering you haven't had a single bite."

"I…" Francis replied with an elegant smile, lifting his fork and allowing the stuff to drip from it, slowly,

"I don't know if it's possible to _bite_ into this sort of thing…"

"_Why, you—!_"

Arthur seethed, slamming his fists down on the tabletop.

Alfred and Matthew looked up.

"Nobody's forcing you to eat it, you know…!"

"Whew, that's a relief,"

Francis replied, tossing his napkin to the tabletop.

"Ah…I think it's just fine! _Mmm…!_"

Matthew smiled, voice very small and quiet, but Arthur merely glared as Francis stormed off.

***

Needless to say, Francis slept on the couch that night.

"_That frigid ice queen_…"

Alfred could hear him murmur as he arranged the blankets there, somehow still cheerful, smiling in self-mockery, _what can you do…_

_You brought this on yourself_, Alfred thought as he proceeded up the steps to his own bedroom, glass of milk in hand.

He lay in bed for several hours, staring at the ceiling, irritably awake, listening to the soft sound of rain outside, night birds calling, the house settling.

He was hungry.

He sat up very slowly, bare feet coming in contact with the cool wooden floor, hair still ruffled from the sheets, eyes staring blindly into the darkness of the room. After his vision adjusted, he rose to his feet and proceeded to walk to the door, out of the room and down the hallway, past the bathroom and Matthew's bedroom and in the direction of the stairwell, when he caught sight of the door to Arthur and Francis' room.

The door was slightly ajar, darkness emanating from within.

Unlocked? Feeling compassion toward Francis, perhaps?

Alfred hesitated. Very slowly, he reached for the handle, sliding the door open and very quietly stepping inside.

Arthur was sound asleep, serenely passed out on his side of the bed as Alfred paced closer. He gazed down in the darkness at the messy strands of his hair, spiky as they scattered across the pillow, eyes closed, limbs slender beneath the blue pajamas.

_You used to seem so big_,

Alfred marveled with childlike curiosity, and, slowly, Arthur's eyes batted partway open.

"Nn…" he murmured groggily, "Francis?"

Alfred frowned.

"I've had a nightmare,"

he said with soft bitterness,

"can I sleep with you tonight."

Arthur blinked, rubbing lethargically at his eyes as he gazed up.

"Alfred…" he said, yawning, "really, at your age…"

"Yeah," came the reply, "at my age. I'm _really scared_."

"Eh…." Arthur murmured, "have you lost your mind? Quit joking around and go back to bed."

But Alfred was already helping himself, climbing in at his side. Arthur sat up and stared at Alfred lying angrily to his left, making himself quite at home as he glared with all the petulant fury of a small child.

"Well…!" Alfred said, laughing aloud, "I feel much better now…!"

Arthur continued staring, both amused and disturbed, and finally lay back down.

"Where did I go wrong with that boy…" he murmured to himself as he turned to sleep. "Fine, just…just go to sleep, then."

Alfred grew silent and continued glaring, his gaze practically piercing through the back of his head.

"I want you to hug me,"

He said with quiet annoyance,

"Like you used to when I was a kid."

"What?"

"I won't feel better unless you hug me."

"I thought you said you already feel better."

"Now I'm back to being scared."

Arthur turned around, making a face and wondering what in the hell had gotten into him.

"You've been a right pain in the neck these past few days…"

"I said I want a hug."

"Alfred, you know…"

But he sighed in defeat, finally giving in.

"I guess it can't be helped…"

He moved closer and gathered him into his arms, the slender digits of his hand raking gently across Alfred's back. He really had grown so big...

Alfred said nothing, slowly leaning his head in the crook of his neck.

Still dissatisfied.

"Alfred, you're pulling my hair."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"I want you to kiss me."

"You're pulling my hair, and you're acting really weird, Alfred, can you—"

Arthur disentangled himself partway, trying to move his head, but then Alfred pressed him back unto the mattress, holding him down by the wrists as he gazed down.

Arthur glared up.

"Now, wait just one minute! What in the hell has gotten into you, stop messing around…!"

"Does it look like I'm messing around?"

"Haha, right, right…this has gone far enough, get off me and get back to bed—"

But Alfred didn't budge, his hands tight and curiously strong, chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of breath, rogue strands of hair sliding over his forehead and falling softly forth.

Arthur could merely watch in astonishment as he leaned slowly toward him, realizing that he was intent on having his way.

Alfred kissed him very gently, curiously, eyes closed, with a strange hunger that was somehow both sweet and very unsettling. He resisted, struggling weakly in his grasp as he tried to turn away, inhaling deeply through his nose. Alfred's mouth was insistent on his, passionate, having at him with forlorn desperation.

"G…get back to your room,"

Arthur murmured weakly on his release, but he was no longer struggling; the damage was done.

_To be continued…_


	19. Chapter 19

"Don't think about that,"

Vash said very quietly to Matthew,

"Look at me. Just at me. Do you understand?"

"I—"

Matthew whispered, voice coming breathless and hoarse,

"—I understand—"

"Kiss me—"

Matthew did, softly, feverishly,

"Hand on my belt, harder, _harder—_"

"Like this?"

"Yes, undo the latch, like—_ahh—! _G—good—"

Hungary watched, eyes quiet and composed but secretly alive with emotion and memories unfurled—

"_I have a little gift for you_,"

Many years ago, standing at the entrance to their bedroom, she faced Roderich from across the way.

Her hand interwoven in Vash's.

Already in his pajamas, Roderich looked up, cheeks turning crimson pink when his eyes met the other boy's. Elizabeta smiled knowingly.

"I think this is something you've wanted for a long time," she grinned, confident in herself while each of them tried his best to ignore and avoid the other.

She pulled Vash after her as she paced closer to the bed, finally climbing on at Roderich's side.

Vash was scantily clad, embarrassed, blushing, but not really opposed. Elizabeta took his chin in her hand, smiling as she turned his face to hers and kissed him very slowly. "He is very cute, isn't he," she laughed, enjoying this as much as her husband did.

"Go on," she prompted the boy in her arms, "kiss him, too."

Vash gazed at Roderich in silence, tensely wound but curious, no less, and Hungary could see in his eyes that he wanted this, it was almost painfully clear.

He slowly disentangled himself from within her grasp, advancing toward Roderich, tentative, silent.

Very gently, Roderich smiled.

"Hey,"

he said very softly to Vash. He reached for the other boy's hand, eyes twinkling as their fingers wove together.

Switzerland's voice came very softly then.

"Hey,"

he said back.

Elizabeta watched with pure enjoyment as they leaned into each other, Roderich grinning, Vash responding in kind. They were both embarrassed, awkward, but undoubtedly aroused, and it was almost purely to their benefit that she was there to tell them what to do.

Vash knew now that she watched, he knew all three of them did, Liechtenstein, too, _make it look like you don't want this, make it look like it's all Ivan and Francis' idea—_

But Elizabeta must have known he was thinking of Roderich all along.

_I don't really like Austria_, he tried to tell himself, _what's wrong with me…?_

He guided Matthew through the foreplay, through getting him properly undressed, he guided him through perverse, terrible things, violent and hard and obscene, profane, shameless and deliberate and loud, _is this what you meant, is this what you wanted, will that have you shut your mouth about Roderich and me—_

Matthew, himself, was astounded by his own capacity to carry this sort of thing out, he blushed and trembled and pleaded silently in the other boy's hands, internally resistant until there came at last the moment of penetration and, for the first time in his life, he felt the indescribable sensation of being inside someone else—

_Of being on top—_

His cry rang with astonishment, of unmistakable innocence and surprise, reverberating clear throughout the chamber and the remainder of the hall, blue eyes shimmering liquid, tremulous and blank—

He couldn't stop himself after that.

He lost any and all sense of reason and control and merely had at the other boy as though dying, breathless, and gasping for air, infatuated, spellbound—

Even Francis blushed to himself as he wondered how long Matthew had it in him, how much like himself he may really have been, but the very thought of letting him top had seemed little more to him than just plain absurd.

Liechtenstein watched in silence as, beneath Matthew's long, slender abdomen there rose Vash's arms, fingers delicate and strong, clawing, scratching at Matthew's back, not in resistance but in what seemed suspiciously like desire, his long hair swinging rhythmically in time—

_Big brother_, she thought, _you should never, never know how beautiful I think you are—_

_Big brother_, Matthew thought, _I never knew this is what it's like._

Upstairs, Kiku had lain on Alfred's bed for a good hour, absorbed deep in thought, wary not to fall asleep. He couldn't; he was far too nervous, far too much preoccupied; he had meant to get up and leave quietly at last when there came the sound of footsteps from just outside the bedroom door.

In came Alfred and Arthur, partly kissing, partly arguing, partly pushing and pressing each other against the wall and then the door and the furniture on their way inside, you'd think they hated each other, you'd think they were ready to kill and ruin and destroy one another the way they talked, the horrible things they said, except that it was clearly obsession, it was clearly affection and, unmistakably, it clearly was love—

"I ought to kill you,"

Arthur said, voice coming breathless and hoarse as he slammed Alfred up against the dresser,

"I'll kill you and no one will ever find the body—"

"Yeah, I'd like to see you try,"

Alfred's reply came then, challenging, partly muffled as he kissed Arthur in turn, and Kiku pressed his hands to his mouth lest they noticed, lest they heard him breathe. _What do I do. What do I do?_

He stared for a long time until he was sure they were far too involved with one another, with their impassioned argument to notice, and then climbed very carefully down from the bed, slowly, limb after limb, lowering himself to the floor with intention to quietly crawl out after they've come farther inside—

But before he could do so, there came Alfred's hand against the bedroom door, slamming it with a little too much force, and soon the room was pitch black, pitch dark but for the glowing red digits of the radio alarm clock.

_To be continued…_


	20. Chapter 20

Alfred laughed, long arms firm and strong as he held Arthur in place, captive, helpless to sheer force he never wanted to admit that Alfred had, he had him up on the dresser, back to the mirror, the both of them naked at this point, disheveled and slicked with sweat, having just barely recovered from their recent escapades in the attic nearby—

"_My turn_,"

Alfred grinned, amd Kiku blushed at the proximity of their presence, the loudness of Alfred's voice, far more realistic now that they were only several feet apart. Feeling more like a pervert than ever before, he moved silently into the space between the desk and the bed, wishing that he hadn't come into the room to begin with but all the while morbidly amused.

Neither of them had ever acted so blatantly insulting and rude toward him as they were to each other, tearing away at each other even through this explicit display of simple love.

He was almost jealous.

_Almost,_ he laughed inwardly in a moment of self-deprecation, _almost, right_.

From his position, even now that his eyes had gotten accustomed to the darkness in the room, he couldn't see what they were doing, but he could hear, there was a light struggle, the wood of the dresser creaking, items falling haphazardly to the floor, the echo of breath and the quiet rustling of flesh sliding lightly against naked flesh—

"Not so hard…"

Arthur complained, surprisingly resigned to the notion of Alfred taking control,

"…you scratched me well good last time…"

Alfred's voice came then with gentleness that sent unsettling shivers all throughout Kiku's spine,

"Is this okay?"

What came next was silence, Arthur's breath coming soft, they were kissing, Kiku realized, and he wanted almost to cup his ears so he wouldn't be able to hear any more, but all the while he wished all the same that he had his video camera—

_It must hurt_, he mused silently, it must hurt to go at it on the hard dresser like that, it can't be terribly comfortable, the creaking of the glass and the wood made all that clear enough—

He could hear them whispering to each other, short breaths and words and parts of words, the dresser rocking, the mirror knocking up against the wall, he blushed silently to himself, he thought of the times Arthur had had him over for tea—

Ever the English gentleman—

Now mere feet away, helpless and subject to Alfred's ministrations, gasping in arousal within the strong embrace of his arms—

Alfred picked Arthur up and, still mid-delivery, carried him, practically threw him to the bed, Arthur's voice a hoarse cry of surprise as he descended unto his back, Alfred bent him double, so close, _so close_—

Arthur's spiky wisps of yellow hair scattering only a short distance away, almost near enough to touch—

Alfred suddenly released him all at once, pulling out to Arthur's vast disappointment,

"_Fuck's sake, America—_"

His voice was cut off mid-sentence before, still holding him double, Alfred seized his thighs, proceeding to lean over him and relentlessly to lap at his member, the slick perineum and the entrance beneath, Arthur's back arching all at once off the mattress, sensitive, captive, surprised—

"Ah—! Oh—Alfred—! _Oh, shi—_"

Alfred laughed contentedly to himself, holding him securely in place as he proceeded forth, licking at the wet trails of fluid that streamed down along his thighs and the curve of his behind, tongue hot and insistent against his entrance—

Arthur laid his head tensely on the mattress, eyes tightly shut and out of breath, short locks scattering, feet waving high in the air, and when his eyelids gradually fluttered open, he kept his silence when, very vaguely, he came to recognize the distinct form of a human silhouette in the dark across the way.

Kiku stared back terrified, captive, _please don't say anything_, his expression seemed to say, and, entirely at a loss for words or any rational thought at all, Arthur gazed back, _I won't._

He had been helplessly aware of Alfred and Matthew's presumably private shenanigans often enough to know what this was, pretending not to know, not to hear, not to be aware and not to judge, _is this a good idea, are they really much prepared, aren't they still far too young—_

Alfred and Matthew had experimented and explored each other since they were nearly children.

Was this normal, was this Francis' bad influence, he wondered, would it make things all the worse if he reprimanded them and made it clear that he knew—

"_What do you expect_," he'd yelled at Francis, "_what with you making perverted advances at me in every which room in the house—_"

Arthur was only partly cognizant then, skin electric and tremulous with charge, long fingers bunching, grasping at the sheets, overly sensitive as his gaze met Kiku's in the dark. Neither said a word as both slowly reached for each other, tentative, curious, breath ghosting warm as they closed the small space between them, the slender digits of Kiku's hands light against Arthur's cheeks as he pressed his mouth to his.

His heart raced, he felt embarrassed, terrified, but curious and forlorn, _what's it like, England-san, America doing this to you—_

The morning after Alfred had made his very first advances at Arthur all those years ago, he had wandered downstairs, dressed only in his briefs, having touched himself for a long time to relieve the tension long unspent, and he found Francis standing at the kitchen counter, back turned to the door, hair tied in a loose ponytail as he carefully worked at peeling the skin off a ripe peach.

He didn't turn around when Alfred stepped in, long hair falling over his forehead and hiding his expression from view.

The peel emerged in a neat, pink spiral away from the fruit, settling elegantly on the plate beneath as with natural ease as Francis' large hands worked effortlessly at the task, fingers slender and glistening wet; Alfred caught himself gazing at him quietly at work, despite himself.

"_Bon matin, ma belle au bois dormant_,"

Francis sang quietly without turning around, _Good morning, my sleeping beauty._

It was almost painfully evident in his voice that he was somehow aware Alfred hadn't slept a wink.

"…what?"

Alfred asked after a brief silence, not particularly interested in whatever Francis had to say in his kooky, incomprehensible language. He paced closer to his side, quietly gazing down at what he was doing, marveling despite himself at the artistic perfection with which the peel curved out onto the plate.

"So, America has come of age, has he,"

Francis gazed knowingly at Alfred out the corner of his eye, voice dangerously quiet and composed.

Alfred gazed back in mute astonishment, confused, wondering to himself what Francis knew, and how—and whether or not he cared—

Francis was oddly possessive of Arthur, Alfred began slowly to understand.

He'd finished with the peel, the peach glimmering a soft yellowish cream color in his hand, perfectly cut and glistening wet.

All at once, his arm reached around Alfred in one fluid, dance-like motion, coming securely at the naked bend of his waist and drawing him very close. Francis' blue eyes darted across the boy's face, silent, inspecting, knowing too much—

He was far too close, Alfred struggled, he could shake himself loose if really he tried, but Francis was surprisingly strong, his grip unnaturally firm as, without a word, he grasped at the elastic of Alfred's briefs. Naked chest against naked chest, he brought his other hand beneath the boy's underwear, deliberately sliding the fruit hard against his member.

Alfred gasped, stiffening all at once, the contact very slippery and wet, a little cold, and Francis kept his hold firm on him as he pressed the thing against him from the tip to the base, to the scrotum beneath and then the perineum, insistently, hard and direct.

Without releasing Alfred, he then slowly pulled his hand out, face mere inches from his as he brought the peach directly to Alfred's face, holding it hard to his mouth without letting go.

Blue eyes gazed back in mute panic, thin streamlets running down from Francis' fingers and to his wrist beneath, and the older boy leaned in to lick at them in silence.

"_Tu n'es encore qu'un gamin_,"

He mouthed tonelessly, _you're still just a little boy_.

Alfred struggled now, coming at last to his senses and breathing hard through his nose, but Francis merely smiled, laughing inwardly with vast amusement; this was really very cute.

"You think you taste pretty good?"

He asked, and finally Alfred managed to turn his head away, lips and chin glistening and sticky with fluid as he gasped for air. Francis drew closer, running his tongue slowly from the tip of his chin to his mouth, taunting, intrusive,

"_Maybe England will think so, too_," he hissed, kissing him forcefully, hostilely, deliberately seizing his mouth.

Alfred fought back, strong enough to push Francis away and fully prepared to face whatever consequences followed punching him in the face, but Francis' grip remained unexpectedly strong round his wrist as he then pulled him forcibly away and headed to the stairwell.

_To be continued…_


	21. Chapter 21

Arthur was still asleep when Francis led Alfred in past the bedroom door. Alfred struggled the entire way, finally shaking himself loose and swinging in preparation to hit Francis when the older boy blocked him, rapidly twisting his arm behind his back in one quick motion.

"_You gonna run?_"

Francis hissed at his ear from behind,

"You wanna pretend to be a man, so fucking _be a man_."

"Go to hell,"

Came the reply, Alfred easily pulling away, and, hair disheveled, Francis glared at him, blocking the doorway.

"But you're not. Are you. You come in here at night when you think I'm asleep, America, you coward."

Alfred's eyes narrowed, and, whispering loudly, Francis continued,

"_You're just a little boy, he'll never see you as anything more than that._"

That hit hard, and Alfred found himself stiffening as his hands tightened into fists.

"Let me through,"

he whispered in anger.

Francis didn't budge.

"You finish what you started,"

he hissed, eyes glowing with malicious fire,

"Or are you only man enough when you think no one's watching."

Francis stepped very close to Alfred, secure in himself, gaze unwavering and intense,

"A_re you only man enough with your baby brother?_"

"_You son of a bitch…!_"

Alfred seethed, now swinging to hit him again, and Arthur sat up in bed, confused and disoriented, eyes wide with alarm as he gazed at them both.

"Alfred…!"

He called out,

"What in the hell is going on…!"

"Nothing at all," Francis replied coolly, and then, turning to Alfred again, "You think you can satisfy him? _You go ahead and try_."

Whatever Alfred was going to say next remained silently lodged at the back of his throat as he watched Francis depart, closing the door behind him.

Sitting in place, Arthur stared silently at the other boy.

"What's all this, then?" he asked when at last he found his voice.

Hands still tightly clenched, Alfred turned slowly around, eyes burning fire with the word Francis had said.

_Just a little boy, am I_, he thought, feeling the shackles of restraint now more than ever.

He was prepared to open the door and leave, but now he felt a curious and very pressing urge to prove himself to Arthur.

_I'm not a little boy_, he murmured as he paced closer to the bed.

Matthew stood quietly outside his bedroom door, hair disheveled and eyes weary with sleep.

"Papa,"

he said very softly to Francis, "Papa, qu'est ce qui ce passe?"

_Papa, what's going on?_

Francis stopped slowly, turning then to face Matthew. He walked quietly toward him, smiling as his long fingers raked with somber affection through the boy's yellow hair.

"Il semble que les choses vont changer par ici," he said, gently leaning in to kiss Matthew's forehead.

_It seems things are going to change around here. _

"Ton frère essaie de tenir tête à Arthur."

_Your brother's asserting himself to Arthur._

_Asserting himself_…Matthew thought, understanding better than he ever wanted just what Francis had meant.

"Allez," the older boy said gently, _come on_, "Qu'est ce que tu dirai que je te fasse à déjeuner?"

_Why don't I fix you some breakfast?_

"Hey, hey…!" Arthur cried out in surprise when Alfred climbed up onto the bed, "j…just what are you—"

Alfred glared back with childlike fury.

"I'm not a little boy…!"

He informed his counterpart.

Arthur blinked.

"Coulda fooled me…"

he mumbled aside.

Ignoring the insult, Alfred sat down at Arthur's side, quietly murmuring,

"What's _the waiter outfit_?"

Arthur blinked, feeling his cheeks go hot.

"W…_what?!_"

Playing with a loose strand at the bottom of his sock, Alfred turned to gaze at Arthur through stray wisps of hair.

"Matthew heard Francis say that to you a while back."

Arthur laughed nervously, looking aside as he scratched at the back of his neck.

"Oh…oh he did, did he…._that perverted wine bastard…_"

There was silence for a few moments then.

"So, what is it?"

Alfred asked, and Arthur turned around, irritated as he replied,

"That's nothing for you to know about…!"

Alfred frowned.

"Huh? And why not?"

"Because…!" Arthur blushed even deeper, making a mental note to kick Francis' ass harder than usual later that day. "Because that's—!"

"Because you think I'm just a little kid and I can't know about stuff like that."

"Well I—"

Arthur grew quiet.

"Can I see the waiter outfit?" Alfred asked, blue eyes piercing as he gazed at the other boy.

"What—! No! Absolutely not…! …no!"

"God damn it…!" Alfred seethed, fists strong as they hit down on the mattress, "When will you—_when will you finally acknowledge me…?!_"

"H…hey…! I don't like your tone right now, America…!"

Hands crossed, Alfred gazed aside.

"_Francis kissed me, you know_."

Arthur's head whipped around all at once.

"…_what…?!_"

Pleased that finally he managed to catch his interest, Alfred went on,

"That's right. This morning, before—before we came in here. In the kitchen."

"Why I ought to—"

Arthur jumped partway off the bed before Alfred caught his wrist.

"No, don't—"

His grasp was very strong. Alfred gazed downward.

"He knows about me coming in here last night."

Arthur froze, having hoped to deny that moment for the remainder of his existence.

"I knew it," he sighed with discontentment, "I knew eventually that pervert's influence would rub off on the two of you…"

"This isn't his influence," Alfred replied, offended. "I came in here of my own accord."

Arthur gazed up.

"Why, then?"

Alfred gazed back intensely for a long time before finally speaking up, his voice coming quiet and hoarse.

"I think you know why."

There came a long silence after that, the both of them gazing intently at one another.

"_I won't be your little boy forever_," Alfred hissed, lip quivering with determination.

Dumbfounded, Arthur merely stared back. His eyebrows came down and he laughed bitterly,

"_America, you'll always be my little boy._"

It was he who kissed Alfred then, slender hands coming on either side of his face, pressing him tightly to himself as he seized his mouth.

_To be continued…_


	22. Chapter 22

Kiku held Arthur in his arms all throughout while Alfred had at him, quiet, gentle and secure, and they knew, they both knew that Alfred couldn't see, and didn't know, and didn't notice at all—

He held Arthur when finally he came, and long after Alfred had fallen asleep after the fact, gently kissing him, tongue careful and soft as he lapped at his sweat-slicked body, at his spent member and the fluid glistening on his abdomen and his thighs—

_You have to tell him_, Arthur thought, _you can't go on this way_, but he knew all too well that he was just as much reserved, that in his place he would have done just the same.

He was an airhead, that Alfred, he wouldn't recognize infatuation if it bit him right on the arse.

Grateful for the attention, Arthur carefully dressed afterward, tucking Alfred in bed as matter of habit before taking Kiku by the arm and leaving the room.

_You've cared for him for years_, Kiku thought to say, _what's he like, how did you do it—_

But all Arthur had to say in this regard was that, really, he hadn't much success in holding on to Alfred, either.

"He's hopeless, that boy," he said with a note of bittersweet affection, walking with Kiku down the steps and out the entrance, not venturing forth at all into the living room, where the lights already had gone out.

"Hey! Hold up…!"

There came a quiet call, and Taiwan came trotting over in their direction. "Japan, can I get a ride home?"

***

Alfred gazed up at Matthew, finally hanging up the phone and putting the receiver away.

"This is a personal failure on England's part…!"

He informed his bewildered brother, head shaking with genuine disappointment, "Really, this is pretty bad, even for him…"

"S…sorry—"

Matthew mumbled, because, although he could hardly remember anything that transpired that night at all, he felt far more responsible than Arthur must have been.

"God, and there's a summit meeting tomorrow, and—and, Matthew, I don't want you to leave my side during that entire meeting…!"

Alfred now had Matthew slung over one shoulder, climbing the steps to the second story with determination, the boy's thighs still slick and glistening wet.

"I…I wasn't going to go any—"

"I don't want you sitting next to France, or Russia, or England, or—actually, I don't want you sitting next to anyone."

"Ah—okay, Alfred, I w—"

"Just—just sit in my chair, I'll be leading anyway, so I won't be sitting down…"

Now entering the bathroom, Alfred deposited his brother at the side of the tub, quickly disrobing before beginning to run the water. Matthew watched him with quiet wonderment, thinking despite himself how perfect Alfred's body really was.

"Come on," Alfred said, placing his glasses at the sink before climbing inside, and Matthew carefully followed suit, long legs maneuvering with elegant grace over the edge and into the water as he allowed Alfred to arrange him as he saw fit.

Understanding that he was in trouble, Matthew remained quiet as Alfred washed him, as his large hands ran gently in Matthew's soft hair, slowly shampooing, careful to avoid his eyes—

"Hey, Al,"

he said gently as he felt the showerhead run in his hair, "hey, Al, remember when we were little, and you made me eat foam…"

Alfred was quiet at first, but then laughed softly.

"Yeah,"

he replied, smirking, "I got a spanking for that."

"Didn't taste so bad, actually."

"Feeling hungry for some foam, are ya?"

Matthew chuckled. "No, no…not really…"

Alfred's hand came wetly from behind Matthew, messily slapping a handful of foam onto his mouth.

"_Nn—!_"

Matthew cried in surprise, quickly turning around to face Alfred.

"You—!"

he shrieked, now scooping some foam from the tub and doing the same.

"Hey—!" Alfred cried, "_I_ never said I liked eating foam…!"

Matthew laughed, now facing Alfred in the water and moving closer.

"_You love eating foam_," he taunted, now inches away, the both of them entirely covered and dripping white suds.

Alfred laughed, too, leaning in to kiss him. He pushed Matthew back into the water, the boy's long legs protruding gracelessly from over the side of the tub as he fell farther in, water splashing all over the floor.

_Those boys have no sense of discipline…!_

Alfred seized Matthew's mouth, kissing him with hunger that surprised even himself, before suddenly he stopped. There came a nagging, very disturbing feeling within him as he thought about the night before, acknowledging that neither he nor his brother really knew what Matthew was subjected to exactly then.

"Did…are…are you sore?"

He asked directly.

Matthew blinked.

"What?"

"I mean, cause if you are, then this might hurt…"

Alfred slowly stroked the tip of one slender finger against Matthew's opening.

"Ah—!"

"You sore then?"

"N…no! And you did that before, anyway, downsta—! _Ahh—!_"

"So, not sore, then."

"N—_not sore—_"

As Alfred proceeded to slide the digit farther in, he nearly asked Matthew for more specific details, but it bothered him to think of it, it really did.

It must have been France who did it. It had to be France…Alfred didn't want to ask. And Matthew wouldn't remember, anyway.

Without releasing Matthew, he dove under the water, eyes closed as he found the boy's member with parted lips.

Hard.

_Matthew, you bad little boy_, he wanted to to say, but, underwater, he couldn't speak. Hair falling wetly outside the tub, Matthew gasped as Alfred took his member in his mouth, voice echoing sweet and soft throughout the small chamber.

_Is this how Francis felt when I'd made advances at Arthur?_

…_jealous?_

_Matthew is my brother, that's different. No one can have him. _

Out of breath, Alfred emerged from within the water, hair streaming wet down his face and the nape of his neck, and Matthew, whose head was tilted backward , slowly returned his gaze to his.

"God, that was good,"

he whispered, long arms coming around Alfred's naked back as he leaned in to kiss him.

"I don't like thinking of you with other people,"

Alfred breathed, hungrily kissing him again, and, gasping for air, Matthew kissed back, trying his best to keep up despite his pressing arousal.

"I'm sorry,"

he whispered back, and it came as honest sentiment, but Alfred still was not satisfied.

His voice came hot, humid against Matthew's skin as he kissed him tensely, possessively,

"You're mine. You're mine, and you're never drinking again. You were drinking, weren't you."

"I…I don't remember…I guess I must have—"

Matthew gasped when suddenly he felt the hard tip of Alfred's member pressing insistently against his entrance.

"God, I hope you aren't sore—"

Eyes squeezed shut, Alfred slowly moved in. Matthew's long fingers clawed hard at the wet skin of his back, sinking in with cruelty unrestrained, his toes clenching at the side of the tub—

"_You're mine, you got it?"_

Alfred's voice came stifled and hoarse, and Matthew could just barely nod in response.

"You ever gonna pull that on me again?"

"No—"

"You ever gonna play with France and Russia again?"

"Never—"

"Just me."

"Just you."

"God, Matthew, I love you so much—"

"I—me too—I love you, too—"

***

As they proceeded down the hall to the meeting room the next day, Alfred wouldn't allow his brother out of his sight. It was early, quite early, in fact, and, beaming with contentment, he explained to Matthew how everyone else will feel far inferior when they arrive later than they did.

"And we can say to them, _my, you guys sure are la—_"

Alfred's words were cut short when, on opening the door to the room, he found they weren't the first to arrive after all—

On the conference table before them, Ivan had Francis laid out, yellow hair fanned across the glimmering oak surface, very formal clothes mostly still on. The both of them carried on undisturbed for a good five seconds before, slowly, Ivan began to notice out the corner of his eye that they weren't alone.

Silence.

Francis still in his grasp, Ivan smiled with infinite kindness and warm regard, actually waving at the brothers as he greeted them and sweetly said,

"Well, you guys are here early…"

_To be continued…_

_A/N: My brother made me eat foam when we were little kids and our parents bathed us together. It really wasn't so bad...!_


	23. Chapter 23

Hundreds of years ago, long before Alfred and Matthew ever were born—

Incandescent glow of candles in the chandelier, the warm and tremulous cascade of wine, luxuriant, velvety soft, Arthur drunk in Francis' strong arms, led with proficient mastery across the dance floor,

_Tonight, beloved, you're mine._

Arthur's eyes glimmered emerald green, brilliant, forgetful, his laughter reverberating fluid throughout the large hall,

_I'll kill you, you wine bastard, I'll kill you—_

_I'll kill you_, Francis' lips red and hot against the naked expanse of his neck, vulnerably exposed as he'd tilted his head back, the room spinning, dipped across Francis' thigh, spikes of yellow hair swaying in his wake, and Francis laughed, too,

_Kill me then, do it._

It was Arthur who kissed Francis then, long fingers coming on either side of his stubbled cheeks, drawing him down with fervor unrestrained, _I hate you, I hate you, I'll kill you a thousand times, and then I'll kill you again_—

He was warm, feverishly warm, tremulous, awake and alive, voice quivering and hoarse as he slurred murderous threats of eternal vengeance at his older counterpart, and they fell unto Francis like glittering gusts of silver and gold as he kissed him back with anticipation of all still to come.

A hundred pairs of eyes followed with stifled laughter and polite reserve as Francis lifted Arthur in his arms and carried him up the grand stairwell, struggling to maintain his balance as, slender arms slung around his neck, Arthur continued to kiss him all along their ascent.

* * *

Alfred's hand came all at once on Matthew's eyes.

"A-ahahahaha…!"

He laughed a fake American laugh, flashing Russia and France a thousand Watt smile,

"I see you guys were just getting the hell out of here so that I can set up my presentation…!"

"A—Alfred—"

Matthew murmured, long fingers trying weakly to pry away his brother's palm, to no avail.

Grin still plastered to his face, Alfred watched with composed irritation as Ivan and Francis took their time dressing and leaving the room, Francis having the gall to actually wink at Alfred and blow him a kiss on his departure.

"_You're next_,"

Ivan sang mancingly, smiling with mockery of good-natured affection.

"Yeah? Awesome, I can't wait…!"

Alfred sang back, laughing as he slammed the door shut after them.

"Assholes,"

He muttered to Matthew, finally moving his hand away from the boy's eyes, and Matthew took the opportunity to straighten his glasses back into place and smooth out the hairs that have gotten frazzled in his brother's grasp.

"God, I can't believe I left you with them last night,"

Alfred added, beginning to unzip his bag and remove his laptop. As he turned the thing on and began to pull up his presentation, Matthew had wandered to the window, gazing out unto the lawn where others had begun to arrive. He realized he didn't remember who had been at the party, and what exactly he drank, or how he ended up the way he did—

_Did they notice me? Does that mean people actually noticed me?_

"Check it, Matt,"

Alfred grinned, gazing at his screen for a few moments before turning around to the overhead projection of the display, and Matthew turned to look, as well. When Alfred hit a key to switch the slide, there came the sound effect of a loud explosion, and, smiling excitedly, Alfred imitated it, motioning with his hands,

"_Ka-blam…!_ Awesome, huh?"

Matthew laughed.

"Yeah, heh. That's pretty neat, Al."

"Damn straight."

Matthew's pale blue eyes gazed over the specular surface of the large oak table, and he wondered to himself when exactly Ivan and Francis had gotten there, realizing they must have stayed the night together to have both arrived at the same extra early time.

He found himself curious.

And a little—

_Jealous? _

When Alfred slept with Arthur all those years ago, Matthew was acutely aware of it all, politely awaiting his breakfast as Francis sang softly to himself at the stove.

Still in his pajamas, he watched sleepily as _Papa's_ slender hands moved quickly and with elegant grace, stirring something in the frying pan, apron tied neatly at the small of his back.

"Ne t'en fais pas, mon trésor,"

_Don't you worry, my treasure,_

He said gently without turning around,

"Il ne fait que passer à travers une phase rebelle,"

_He's' just going through a rebellious phase. _

"Ah, c'est comme cela..."

_Ah, is that so,_

Matthew attempted a smile, "Enfin, je ne crois pas que c'est si pire..."

_Well, I suppose that isn't so bad…_

But within him he felt the most curious pang of hurt, and even he didn't really understand why.

"Ah, je sais ce que tu aimerais..."

_Ah, I know just what you like…_

Francis smiled gently as he turned to one of the cupboards, long fingers searching through and emerging ultimately with a large container of syrup.

Matthew gazed with patient curiosity, smiling despite himself as he watched Francis set the thing down and unfasten the lid.

"Rajoutons juste un peu de ceci..."

_Let's just add a little bit of this…_

He grinned, and Matthew could tell he was trying to ease his pain, and he blushed inwardly, realizing that there was pain in Francis' voice, too.

"C'est juste une phase, papa,"

_It's just a phase, Papa_,

Matthew said very softly, and, wooden spoon in hand, Francis turned around slowly to face him then.

The sunlight streamed in clear through the kitchen window, illuminating Francis' hair in a golden haze.

"Ah, petit bougre, tu t'en fais pour moi?"

_Ah, you silly little thing. Are you worried about me?_

He asked, red lips curved in a knowing smile, and he was beautiful in that moment, a comforting presence, all gentleness and affectionate grace.

"Viens ici,"

_Come here, _

His long arms unfolded as he waited for Matthew to come into his embrace, and, spoon still in hand, he gently drew the boy close to himself.

"_Et pourquoi je ne t'apprendrai pas à faire... les meilleures crèpes au monde..._"

_Why don't I teach you how to make the most…amazing crepes in the world…_

He whispered in Matthew's ear, as though it were a very taboo, well-kept secret he'd never told anyone before.

Head nestled in the warm crook of Francis' neck, Matthew smiled, laughing softly in response.

"Cela serai bien…"

_Sounds good…_

he said, and Francis smiled back, even though he knew Matthew would respond exactly the same way if Arthur had asked whether he'd like some of his gravy-soaked roast dinner.

* * *

"And that is why we need to blow up those thirteen countries…!"

Alfred concluded with a big smile, fist coming down on the podium for emphasis,

"Matthew, would you mind passing around the handouts?"

"S—sure—"

Matthew replied softly, long fingers reaching for the stack on the tabletop nearby.

"Matthew's here?"

Ivan joked, and, obviously doing something inappropriate under the table, Francis crooned back to him,

"I'd think you'd recognize him a little better after we screwed him on Saturday…"

Matthew blushed, and Alfred's hands slammed down on the table. He glared bloody murder at Francis in that moment, completely prepared to tear him to bits.

"_So there's two more nations I'm thinking of blowing up…!_"

He laughed angrily through clenched teeth as he kept a tight rein on his temper.

"Really?"

Ivan asked with a lighthearted smile, "And which nations are those?"

Now Alfred actually lunged forth in Ivan's direction, and, jumping to his feet, Arthur grasped at his abdomen from behind, fighting with all this strength to hold him down.

"You idiot, you'll bring us all down with you…!"

Matthew watched with mute horror as this unfolded, slender fingers clutching nervously at the stack of papers still in his hands.

"Ah—"

He said very softly,

"I—I'm glad France recognized me—"

But nobody was listening at this point, Alfred already strangling Ivan with mild success, Arthur attempting to wrestle him off and Ivan laughing with vast amusement, because, frankly, it quite tickled.

Beside Ludwig and Feliciano, Kiku watched with reserved composure, realizing that he perhaps was the only one present at the party who'd been sober enough to know exactly all that transpired that night.

_To be continued…_


	24. Chapter 24

_"Mon bien-aimé, mon __héros__."_

"_Au moins tu admet que j'ai toujours sauver ton petit cul dans la bataille."_

* * *

It's only just a phase.

Alfred's strong hands, his broad shoulders, reassuring, big smile, childlike enthusiasm, courageous, teasing.

Where are you, big brother?

Matthew sat quietly at his desk, working patiently at his studies, slender fingers delicate around the long writing instrument. Alfred had been gone a long time. It had been hours since Matthew had heard the unmistakable opening and then closing of the door to Arthur and Francis' bedroom, but he didn't hear his brother walk back down the hall after that. There were footsteps heading downstairs, and the low sound of chatter, the metal hinge squeaking at the front door.

Matthew reached carefully with the writing instrument into the inkwell container, careful, attentive not to spill the black fluid outside the glass. His soft blue eyes gazed with quiet introspection over the document laid out on the desk, trying dutifully to focus on the task, slowly drawing out the rounded cursive letters.

Alfred didn't come home for dinner; it was a tense, quiet affair, both Francis and Arthur deliberately avoiding the issue. Matthew didn't ask. They were both wary and very compassionate toward him, Arthur asking him gently if he could help with the dishes, Francis inquiring about the progress of his studies, both foregoing the routine dinnertime bickering to which Matthew and Alfred had grown so accustomed.

"Time for you to get ready for bed,"

Arthur said to Matthew later that night, rising on tiptoe as he reached to kiss his forehead, and he said nothing about the fact that Alfred still hadn't come home. Helpfully bending down, Matthew deliberately didn't ask.

Long limbs maneuvering carefully under the sheets, he turned on his side to blow out the lantern, setting his spectacles at the side of the bed before laying his head down. His eyes followed the dim outline of the furniture in the dark room, the oblong looking glass up on the wall, familiar patches of Arthur's embroidery.

The grandfather clock out in the hall had rung eleven, then midnight, then one, and still Alfred hadn't come home. Matthew listened to the sounds of life proceeding quietly downstairs, giving way eventually to silence as the hours passed, and finally there were only the solemn sounds of night, the hum of cicadas outside and the wind in the treetops, wild coyotes howling.

Some time after three, at last there came the heavy slide of the front door.

Eyes open wide in the darkness, Matthew could hear footsteps downstairs, dishware in the kitchen, shutting of the cupboard and quiet pacing after that, and his bony fingers clutched slowly at the cotton edge of this blanket, he listened as Alfred made his way up the stairs and eventually to his room down the hall.

Then again, silence, Matthew's breath came shallow and distracted, tense, fingers curled around his blanket as he gazed up at the wall that separated his and Alfred's rooms.

It had been another hour before he slowly sat up in bed, blanket falling forgotten in his wake as he rose to his feet and paced quietly to the door. He hesitated outside Alfred's room in the hall, having barged in there countless times in the past, but somehow quite reluctant now.

He didn't ask permission; slowly twisting the handle, he pushed the door in and proceeded inside, stopping with his hand on the knob for a long time before venturing farther in. When Matthew was very little, he was afraid of thunder, and had crawled into Alfred's bed at night, they still shared a bedroom then.

The floorboards creaked softly under his bare feet as he approached the bed, carefully lifting the sheets before sliding in beside his brother, pointed tip of his nose moving gently against the soft locks at the nape of Alfred's neck. His arms came around the boy's naked abdomen, careful and warm, he cried softly, very softly into Alfred's hair, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, shoulders slender and brittle, tremulous with agony and forlorn despair.

"_I'm sorry_,"

Matthew whispered, "_I'm sorry, please, Alfred, please—_"

Alfred didn't stir for a long time. Perhaps he was angry, perhaps he was asleep, Matthew didn't understand, and no matter how tightly he held on to him, no matter how desperately and sincerely he spoke to him and cried, he couldn't hold on to him in earnest.

Then, very slowly, Alfred's large hands came around Matthew's, slender and strong, he brought Matthew's fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, head still turned away. Without a word, he slowly turned around, eyes darting quietly in the darkness across his brother's face, and Matthew was crying, crying uncontrollably, silent, wounded, the tears streaming endlessly down his face without restraint and without shame to the angular bend of his chin, wetting his skin and his hair.

Alfred kissed him slowly, he kissed the places on his skin where the tears had rolled and then carefully kissed each of his eyes, _shh, please, please don't cry. _But Matthew didn't stop crying; weak and exhausted with grief, he only cried more, and Alfred didn't stop him, because they both knew, Matthew was right.

There was nothing he could ask for, there was nothing he could try; they both felt it, Alfred already was gone.

_I can't stay anymore, Matt, I wasn't built for this, I'd suffocate if I didn't go._

_Did you prove yourself_, Matthew wondered silently in his mind, _did you prove yourself to Arthur, was that so great, how could I ever compete with that—_

He buried his head in the crook of Alfred's neck, arms long and slender as they slid around the warm skin of his naked shoulders, he loved him, he had never loved anything so much in his life, he would gladly have done something, he would gladly have sacrificed himself if he knew it would make his brother stay.

Alfred's fingers raked with gentle affection through Matthew's long hair, compassionate, protective and strong, _come with me_, and _I'll take care of you_, and _both of us, let's run away_, those were all things Alfred wouldn't say to him, and even though he knew he would refuse, Matthew found himself wishing he'd said them anyway.

Matthew leaned silently over Alfred's naked abdomen, hair cascading in soft waves as he kissed his stomach and his waist, his hips, the bony protrusions there and the straight angle at the inguinal ridge, Alfred's body was beautiful, slender and rigid and strong, Matthew had always admired him, he admired him for so many reasons, in so many different ways. What could he possibly say, what could he possibly offer, what chance did he stand against Arthur or against the prospect of life as an independent adult—

Carefully, lovingly, he leaned farther down and kissed Alfred's member, gently, as though he were kissing him on the mouth, he could feel Alfred's body tightening, shivering all at once, the strong fingers affectionate in his hair.

_Matthew, you don't have to_, he didn't say that, either, because Matthew knew he didn't have to, he did this out of love, of his own innocent accord, the fingers in his hair were kind, encouraging.

_He thinks he's leaving? Ha! The little fool, I'd like to see him try._

Arthur would gently ruffle Matthew's hair, cynical, confident, and Francis would tell him it's only just a phase, and Matthew would be able to see that it was something Francis wanted to believe just as well. There would be quarrels, screaming matches and fights that spanned late into the night, when, biting down on his lip in an attempt to maintain composure, Matthew would continue working quietly at his desk.

He allowed the member past his lips, insistent now and hard, beautiful, his fingers possessive at Alfred's hips, jealous, defeated and hurt that Alfred had shared it with someone else.

His palms would go moist, his throat would go dry, _Alfred, you got yourself a bayonet? _Voice lodged uselessly in his throat, becoming gradually afraid_, just how far would this go, just what was Alfred willing to do just to get away—_

He must really have wanted this. He must really have felt suffocated.

Matthew didn't feel that way. He wished things could just stay as they were.

Alfred's hard member in his hand, he gazed up through long waves of hair, eyes meeting his brother's in the darkness, both tense, neither saying a word, the strong fingers at his hips were gentle as Matthew slowly rose to his knees and took his place over Alfred's thighs.

Arthur must have been better, Arthur was so much older, he must really have been quite proficient, Matthew thought, while Matthew's only experiences had been with Alfred in this regard, his brother was all he ever knew. But Alfred never complained, he never said Matthew was bad, that he was too boring or that he had wanted more, his breath came gentle, tremulous, ragged as the wet tip of his member slid insistently against the small opening, hands warm on Matthew's hips, hair falling over his forehead and eyes attentive and wide, _may I_, he seemed to ask, and Matthew gazed back, _please_, he thought, _please_.

Matthew was hot, very hot, delicate and fragile, and Alfred was careful with him, he had always been careful, afraid somehow that he would break him if he didn't watch out, because Matthew was very thin, the bones of his clavicle and ribs protruded like metal knobs and joints from under the soft expanse of his chest.

"_Kiss me_," Alfred said, breath coming humid, words ghosting ethereal against Matthew's lips, and Matthew did, mouth pressed motionless to his as he moved slowly against him, memorizing in his mind every aspect of this moment as it passed, wondering when exactly Alfred meant to go, how many more nights they would have together until then, and as Alfred began to move faster, his hair swayed against his forehead, falling slightly in his eyes, he was so beautiful then, innocent, curious somehow, Matthew wished there was something he could say, something meaningful, a convincing argument or a solution to it all—

There would come nights that Matthew would lie awake in bed, pressing his pillow to his ear in attempt to drown out the sound, the fighting, the screaming and slamming of doors, Alfred's threats and Arthur's dry laughter in response, and, sometimes, physical struggles that would follow after that, and where they lead from there, Matthew would wish he didn't really know.

_You're not really going to use that, Al?_

He would ask very softly, delicate fingers moving with tentative caution along the pointed metal end of Alfred's bayonet, and his brother wouldn't reply, but merely gaze off into the distance, at the place in the room where the ceiling met the walls.

He held tightly to Alfred, as tightly as he could, his voice coming desperate and soft into the crook of his neck, heart racing within his thorax, he gazed directly into Alfred's eyes when he came, hair swinging wetly and cheeks flushed with blood, he tightened deliberately all around his member, watching him shudder in overly-sensitive after-response.

They stayed this way for a long time, Alfred still inside Matthew, blue eyes staring in the darkness at blue eyes, neither of them saying a word.

_To be continued…_


	25. Chapter 25

Arthur sighed with resigned irritation as he padded at Alfred's forehead with a piece of ethanol-soaked gauze.

"There's no helping you…"

he murmured, and Alfred flinched at the burning sensation, gazing angrily at the empty cup in his hand, where now only ice had remained.

Legs crossed, Matthew observed from several seats away, burger long forgotten between his fingers as he watched Arthur nurse his brother's wounds.

"This isn't over…!"

Alfred announced, ice rattling in the cup as he gestured with his hand,

"What they did to Matthew was not okay…!"

Matthew, who was quite curious about what it was exactly that they did to him, was weighing in his mind the pros and cons of actually asking.

"Sit still,"

Arthur grumbled, because Alfred kept moving away from his incoming fingers, menacing as they held that dangerous gauze,

"this is what you get for picking a fight with Russia."

Alfred stiffened all at once, finger pointed accusingly at the older boy.

"He _totally_ started it, you were there…!"

He flipped his head in Matthew's direction then, "Tell him, Matt…!"

Matthew, whose thoughts were elsewhere altogether, dutifully nodded in response,

"Yeah, that's right…!"

he chimed in with a meek smile, oblivious as to what exactly he was agreeing on but certain no less that his brother really was right.

"You gonna eat that?"

Alfred asked, eyeing Matthew's burger, and Arthur smacked him on the arm.

"You pig, you've already had two."

"Hey! That hurts, you know!"

"Sure, Al, I'm not really all that hungry, so…"

Now placing a small bandage on Alfred's forehead, Arthur turned toward Matthew,

"Don't give him that, he's become a right lard arse…"

"I have not…!"

"I think Alfred's body is really nice," Matthew said absently, still gazing out the window.

Arthur and Alfred froze in place, Arthur's hand on Alfred's forehead, Alfred with the cup at his lips, partway through trying to drink whatever water the ice cubes had melted into.

Several seconds passed before finally Matthew turned to face them, realizing suddenly what he'd said, and then proceeded immediately to blush.

"Ah—I mean—"

"A-_ha_…!"

Alfred exclaimed victoriously, hand flailing and ice shooting out from the cup and onto Arthur's clothes,

"There you have it, now stop being a pain, I'm gonna have that burger."

"Fucks' sake, America…!"

Arthur cried in irritation, taking two steps back and shaking the ice off as he inspected the status of his blazer.

Alfred had hopped off the table, already on his way toward the burger Matthew was freely offering out, when he stopped partway there to gaze at a little envelope on the tabletop nearby.

"What's this?"

He asked, hand reaching to pick it up. It was a pretty letter, disturbingly pretty, with nauseating little stickers.

"Oh,"

Matthew said absently as he turned his gaze to Alfred, "someone left this in my tray."

Alfred's eyes rolled suspiciously in his brother's direction as he began helping himself to the seal.

"Hey, don't open that…!"

Arthur scolded, still trying uselessly to dry himself off, "can't you tell that's a personal letter meant for Matthew—"

"Yeah, I don't like the looks of this personal letter,"

Alfred replied, and Matthew watched with mild curiosity as his long fingers pried the thing open.

Alfred's blue eyes darted back and forth in periodic saccades as he read the note, brow furrowing with time, and ultimately he raised his gaze back toward his brother in suspenseful silence.

He gazed back down at the letter, then back up at Matthew, then at the letter again, then at Matthew again.

"Matthew, uh…"

he said, turning his head aside and scratching the back of one ear,

"you, uh…did you…"

"Did I what?"

"Did…was…was there anyone else at the…when you and those guys…"

Matthew gazed back at Alfred cluelessly.

After staring at his brother for several seconds more, Alfred turned on his heels and made his way back toward Arthur.

"England, look at this,"

He said, holding the letter out to Arthur, and, after the older boy began reading for several moments, Alfred smacked him square in the back of the head.

"A-ha…!"

He cried triumphantly once again, and, reaching for the back of his head, Arthur snapped angrily,

"_What the hell, you idiot…?!_"

"So you're interested in reading this, too…! England, really, I should have known…"

"You wanker, you handed it to me…!"

"You could have said no! But you wanted to! The truth comes out—"

"What does the letter say, Al?"

Matthew asked, growing curious now.

Two pairs of eyes turned to gaze at Matthew then.

"Matthew,_ this—_"

Alfred exclaimed very seriously, holding the letter up like a symbol of freedom and justice,

"—_is from a girl_."

Silence.

"I figured as much, Al."

Alfred nodded conclusively, as to say, _good, so we have an understanding_.

He sat down across from Matthew, trying to figure out how to proceed from there.

"Does some girl fancy Matthew?"

Arthur asked, thinking this was really quite sweet.

Alfred scratched the back of his neck again.

"_Oh_ yeah," he muttered aside, eyes rolling, "_the girls like him, all right_."

"_Girls, _plural…?"

Alfred put the letter down, fist slamming on the tabletop at once, and he grasped Matthew's hands in his.

"Matthew, whatever you did at that party, you need to explain to—"

he looked at the letter again, then back at Matthew,

"—to Hungary and Taiwan that that was a one-time thing, and…"

Arthur was laughing now, and, quite annoyed, Alfred turned his head to him,

"What's so funny?"

Still laughing, Arthur replied,

"I wonder how France would feel when he knew the ladies preferred Matt…"

Alfred rose to his feet at once,

"Is this somehow funny to you? They think Matthew is some kind of…they want…they want his—"

He leaned close to Arthur, very softly whispering,

"—his _services_—"

"They want my what?"

Matthew asked with a charming note of confusion.

Arthur and Alfred turned to him in a moment of alarm.

"_Nothing!_"

They replied simultaneously.

Alfred slumped unhappily in his seat, head in his hands,

"God, this is all my fault…I thought it was just Russia and France, but now…"

"Yep, you really blew it this time, America…"

"Hey! This is more your fault than mine…!"

"_My_ fault?! You were the one who…who…"

Matthew carefully reached for the letter. It was written on pink stationary, decorated with subtle, pretty designs, and it smelled a little bit sweet. He adjusted the glasses at the bridge of his nose, absently brushing the hair from his face as he read with quiet curiosity.

His heart raced; he blushed, biting the tips of his fingernails unawares.

"Holy shit…" he mumbled softly, and, suddenly aware of what his brother was doing, Alfred quickly rushed to his side.

"Don't read that…!"

He exclaimed, but Matthew held it out of his reach when Alfred tried to take it away.

"I'm not done yet,"

he mumbled, obviously curious about the rest, and Alfred watched unhappily as he continued on.

By the time Matthew was finished reading, his face was beet red.

"_Fuck…_" he mouthed very softly, long fingers slowly covering his eyes.

Alfred watched in mute panic, wondering to himself for the umpteenth time how he'd managed to let something like this occur.

"Well—!"

He said at last, "Well what's done is done, and we have to let those ladies know that this is not okay, and that whole night was not okay, and writing you a letter like this is not okay, and—"

Matthew gazed up at Alfred through the spaces in-between his fingers. He felt humiliated beyond words, and entirely astonished, and dirty, and very cheap—

—and he wondered just how he might go about telling his brother that he sort of felt like accepting the ladies' invitation.

_To be continued…_

_A/N:_ _Despite what the events here may imply, I do not write hetero, and this story will remain yaoi only._


	26. Chapter 26

Francis' strong arms all around him, Arthur continued kissing the other boy, hungrily, eagerly, drunkenly—

Francis laughed with vast amusement as he teetered down the hall, trying to keep up, trying to kiss back,

"Du vin, je vous pris, apportez-moi une bouteille de vin, avec deux verres, tout de suite,"

_Wine, please, get me a bottle of wine, two glasses, right away,_

He whispered to the butler just as his back came gracelessly into contact with his bedchamber door. Still holding Arthur up, he clumsily managed to get a hold on the handle, fumbling for several moments before finally getting it to twist.

He laughed, and Arthur also laughed, and he could just barely maintain his balance long enough to walk to the bed before they both collapsed there, Arthur's hands already tugging on the various bindings of Francis' clothes.

"Hey, hey…"

Francis crooned softly, smiling, affectionate, Arthur's hands were demanding, aggressive and rough, and Francis marveled at how direct he was, how stubborn and possessive he became when he was drunk.

"You'll tear it off,"

He warned, and it came more as an informative status report than a warning or any sign of discontentment on his part.

Arthur didn't tear his clothes off, though, because there really were too many intricately-wound latches and laces and binds for him to really get anything off him successfully enough, and Francis laughed, helpfully guiding his fingers to the right places with patient regard.

His fingers worked carefully, with knowing attention at Arthur's trousers, as well, just barely able to get them off as the younger boy continued to kiss him all throughout, still graceless, still slurring drunken, murderous threats—

Francis lapped at the hard insistence at his briefs, from outside the restraint of the cloth, devious, teasing, and even before this, his briefs already were completely wet, he tasted so nice, and Francis vastly enjoyed tormenting him this way—

Arthur was quite aggravated though, and, with a harsh tug at Francis' hair, he attempted to direct him toward his bare skin.

"You insufferable tease—"

he muttered hoarsely, and Francis' lips parted in pain and surprise, one hand reaching to loosen his grip on his hair.

"So impatient…"

he murmured with gentle reprimand, long fingers sliding under the cloth of his briefs. Hand still gloved, Arthur still hadn't let go of his hair, and Francis gazed at him through disheveled strands, red tongue reaching slowly to lick at the skin just at his stomach.

"Is this what you wanted,"

He crooned, generously speaking to him in English, words accented in French, but Arthur would still have loved nothing more than to tell him to do something better with his mouth than to talk.

He didn't tell him, he merely gazed at him instead, eyes tearing with frustration, cheeks flushed with arousal, head swinging with liquor, _just do it, you wine bastard, do it already—_

Francis slowly tugged at the tight cloth, fingers delicate as they pulled it gently away, and he smiled to himself as he took careful hold of Arthur's wet member.

Fingers still in his hair.

He licked absently at his lips as he gazed with quiet appreciation at the member in his hand, glistening slick and very hot, hard, the fluid trailing slowly from the tip and in-between his fingers to Arthur's thigh beneath.

Green eyes glittering liquid, Arthur gazed back down, breath coming hot with desperation; he'd run out of patience. He gripped hard at Francis' hair, forced him down all at once, the boy's voice coming sharp with surprise as the member slid clear past his lips, missing his mouth entirely and sliding wet along his face.

"Ah—ah—_okay, d'accord—_"

_okay, all right—_

He reached with one finger to wipe gently at the clear liquid at his chin and bottom lip, then licked at it slowly.

"England, y_ou still taste so nice,_"

he whispered, and, not wishing to suffer any more graceless abuse, he then allowed the tip of his member in past his lips, licking at it slowly.

Arthur gasped.

"Like this?"

Francis breathed, lips moving wet against the tip, and, holding it firmly in his hand, he slowly reached with his tongue to lap at the hot streamlets running down the hard length.

With his other hand, he worked at removing Arthur's shoes, then his stockings, and his trousers after that, men wore such intricate clothing in those days, but Francis proceeded with relative ease, proficient as he were at undressing others—

And good thing, too, as Arthur was entirely wet by that time, his thighs glistening and slick, and Francis parted them gently, lovingly, never asking him to loosen his grip in his hair as he proceeded to kiss and lick at his inner thigh.

He'd hardly come up for air at all, long fingers gripping hard at Arthur's legs and head buried in the slick enclosure in-between, Arthur crying and cursing and clenching his teeth when there came the knock on the door.

"Entrez,"

_Come in,_

Francis just barely managed to call out, and, had he been a little less drunk, a little less preoccupied and hot with arousal, Arthur would probably have blushed, he probably would have scrambled quickly to his feet, or punched Francis, or pushed him aside, but he did none of those things, he merely remained mostly on his back, propped up by one elbow, hand gripping Francis' hair and pressing him farther down against his hips.

The butler walked in, entirely unaffected and composed, and, glancing up from in-between Arthur's thighs, Francis licked at his lips, catching his breath as just barely he managed,

"Merci, s'il vous plait déposez le sur la table de nuit."

_Thank you, please put it on the night table there._

The butler nodded, hardly batting an eye as he set the tray down, a bottle of wine and two glasses, carefully arranging and pouring the liquor even as Francis returned to his ministrations at Arthur's lap.

"S'il vous plait, apportez-moi en un,"

_Please bring one to me,_

he stopped having at him long enough to say, and the man did, now picking up one of the crystal goblets and bringing it to Francis, carefully placing it in his waiting hand.

"Y a t'il autre chose?"

_Will there be anything else?_

"Non, merci, ce sera tout."

_No, thank you, that will be all._

The butler turned quietly to leave, and Francis gazed contentedly at the glass, the crystal glimmering and reflecting the light of the chandelier.

"Drink,"

he said softly to Arthur, reaching out and holding the goblet to the other boy's mouth.

_Go to hell, you wine bastard._

_Shut up and get back to what you were doing._

_Don't you think we've been drinking enough._

Arthur parted his lips around the crystal rim, allowing the liquid inside. It tasted good, hot, a little bit sweet and a little bit bitter, and he found himself taking the glass with both hands, finally releasing Francis' hair, drinking with a strange sort of thirst.

"_Ah, ah—_"

Francis warned, gently prying it away,

"this is for me."

Arthur reached after the glass as Francis removed it, the wine still hot and red on his lips, and Francis leaned forth to kiss him, mouth pressed tightly to his, he thought that from Arthur's mouth it tasted even nicer than just by itself—

His laughter came low then, quiet, knowing, he licked at his lips, brought the glass to his own mouth and sipped at it slowly, _patience_, he crooned, blue eyes twinkling as he gazed back, slowly decanting the glass over the boy's abdomen.

Arthur gasped. The fluid ran cold, deep red from the skin at his flat stomach to his thighs and the bed sheets below, staining them dark, and even as Arthur began to recover from shock and to hurl expletives at him instead, Francis dove down at him, hungrily pressing his mouth to the skin there and lapping, biting, having at him until the expletives turned to incoherent, desperate moans—

"_You want me to fuck you_,"

Francis crooned, as though it weren't a query at all but rather acknowledgement of mutual understanding, and before he could restrain himself or remember to tell Francis at all just what a disgusting pervert he thought he was, Arthur heard himself breathe,

"_God, yes—_"

_To be continued…_


	27. Chapter 27

"Stay with me, Al."

Matthew's touch had always been gentle, feather-light, ethereal and soft, weak but pleasant against Alfred's skin.

"It's cold up here," Alfred smiled, but he would stay anyway.

"I can get the electric blanket,"

Matthew offered hopefully, and Alfred laughed,

"That thing's always creeped me out…"

Matthew liked to see him grin. Alfred grinned a lot, but it was nice when he grinned _for him_.

They brushed their teeth together in the bathroom, Matthew offering his brother a spare toothbrush and some toothpaste, he let him borrow his pajamas, too; Matthew was a little thinner and Alfred was a little more built, but, at the end of the day, they more or less wore the same size.

"How's your…"

They had played three rounds of Smash Brothers Brawl when Matthew spoke up and then trailed off, gazing at his brother and motioning to his forehead, the place where Alfred got a particularly bad bruise in his fight with Ivan earlier that day.

Alfred gazed back for a moment and then emitted a nervous laugh, controller forgotten in his hand partway through selecting the next round,

"This? Oh, that's nothing…"

Matthew smiled, wondering how much it actually hurt.

"You know…"

He said softly, long fingers moving quickly as he set his mode for the next game,

"you know, that letter…"

Alfred grew quiet, serious now.

"Yeah, what about that?"

Matthew adjusted his glasses at the bridge of his nose.

"I, uh…"

He looked down at his hands, then back up at the screen,

"I—maybe I should, you know…"

Alfred stared back in silence for several moments.

"Maybe you should what…?"

he asked with mild irritation.

Silence.

"Ah—"

Matthew's long fingers reached to brush a lock of hair behind one ear. He looked down at his hands again.

"I was just thinking,"

he said, then cleared his throat,

"—ah, that is—"

Alfred put his controller down, prepared to face the issue directly.

"_No._"

Still looking down, Matthew nodded in silence, lips pressed tightly shut.

Alfred still stared, clearly dissatisfied.

"What are you—are you crazy? Matthew, those girls are a bunch of perverts, you know what they—"

He stopped himself before saying anything more.

Matthew nodded again,

"Yeah. Yeah, Al, I know."

Alfred stared for a few seconds more, and then spoke up,

"Then why in the hell—"

"I guess I just—"

Silence.

"…just _what_?!"

"Just—just, I dunno. I—"

Alfred sighed with a great deal of exasperation, putting the controller down at last.

"Matthew, look. If you want a girlfriend—"

"It's not that. I—I mean, that's not—"

Alfred exhaled, aware suddenly that Matthew's response gave him a curious bout of relief.

"That is—"

The boy started again, not looking up from his controller,

"—people don't usually—"

"Matthew, look, you're just really innocent, and naïve, and so maybe you don't understand, but—"

Alfred lowered his voice, taking his brother's hands in his and seeking his eyes, as though trying hard to convey a very important message,

"—but what they want to—what they already—_that's some really hardcore stuff_—"

"_I know that, Al…!_"

Matthew yelled, surprised suddenly by the tone of his voice. He flushed, growing quiet again as Alfred stared back in shock.

"I—I know, okay—I know."

Silence.

It suddenly dawned on Alfred that maybe _really hardcore stuff_ was exactly what Matthew wanted. He felt the blood drain from his face.

_This is bad_, he thought as a creeping sensation of panic began to set in, and he wondered how long Matthew had felt this way, and why. He'd always tried to protect Matthew. Had he been too careful with him? Too wholesome? Head resting in the palm of his hand, he gazed at his brother with obvious dissatisfaction, trying to figure out what was going on.

Had Matthew gotten bored with him, and had actually wanted something more? And now he wanted to let a bunch of perverted women treat him like some cheap—

It pissed him off.

He felt helpless.

Every fiber of his being wanted to tell Matthew absolutely to decline, and, if he did, Matthew probably would—but the fact remained that even if he did decline, he still _wanted_ to accept_._

His eyes watched with quiet introspection as his baby brother sat at the other end of the couch, long legs bent casually, feet up on the cushions, hair falling softly over his brow.

_I won't be your little boy forever._

Cute little Canada.

So he was curious about dirty things.

Alfred was aggressive and strong, fearless—but even he was too wholesome for stuff like that, too straightforward. All he had ever done with Matthew was purely out of love.

Maybe he should let his brother play, just to get it out of his system.

Did he just think that? Handing Matthew over willingly, to a bunch of rabid—

He slumped backward into the cushions, head hurting from thinking too much.

"What's wrong, Al?"

Matthew asked softly, gazing up from the TV screen.

Alfred gazed back, deflated and resigned.

"You feel like ice cream? Let's get some ice cream."

Matthew blinked. Then he smiled.

"Yeah," he finally laughed, "let's get some ice cream."

They didn't discuss the letter beyond that, leaving the controllers in a tangled mess on the couch and heading for the kitchen. It really was cold up at Matthew's house, but they were both intent on having ice cream nonetheless, Matthew's long fingers gripping at the freezer door as he peered inside and began to hand Alfred the various containers he had stored, some half-eaten and others new, Häagen-Dazs and Ben & Jerry's and some generic supermarket brand, and also something from a place called Cows Creamery—

They ate in silence for several moments, but neither of them could help smiling.

Matthew was first to speak up.

"Fuck," he grinned around his spoon, "_this is so good_."

Alfred looked back, obviously exerting himself as he tried uselessly to dig through the frozen surface of the ice cream in his tub. His spoon bent backward, and he lifted it out, inspecting it irritably.

"Damn it—"

He grumbled, and then, all at once, he rose from his seat and leaned over the table, taking hold of Matthew's wrist, forcibly pulling him closer and then closing his mouth around the spoon in his hand.

"H…hey…!"

"Mm, you're right, this _is_ good."

"_That's mine—!_"

Matthew laughed in surprise, and, as he straightened his spoon back, Alfred replied,

"Yeah well, mine's hard as a rock."

Matthew smirked.

"Yeah, haw haw," Alfred laughed and rolled his eyes, and then repeated himself in a mockingly official voice, "_mine's hard as a rock...!_"

"You can microwave that," Matthew pointed out. He was sitting with his tub of Ben & Jerry's, elbows bent on the tabletop, legs crossed up on his chair, hair tucked behind one ear and gazing down intently as he dug into the container with his spoon.

He was just seriously cute as fuck in that moment.

Alfred stopped mid-stride on his journey to the microwave, laughing suddenly as he threw his arms around the other boy.

"_Nnn—!!_"

Matthew startled, "hey, _hey—!_"

Alfred kissed him wetly on the cheek, and Matthew wiped at it absently as his brother made his way to the counter, returning to his food. As Alfred put his container in the microwave, he thought to himself about the letter again, about Matthew, and it pained him to imagine sitting passively by as his brother—

"How long should I put it in for?"

"Maybe like twenty seconds," Matthew mumbled around his spoon without turning around.

He really loved his ice cream. Like a little kid.

_Maybe if I spoke with someone really perverted, I could learn something, and then Matthew wouldn't want to get with anyone else. _

England was really perverted. So were Russia, and France. But Alfred couldn't come to any of them for help, no way.

The microwave dinged, and Alfred opened the door to get his container out; still frozen solid at the top.

As he poked at it with his spoon, his eyes widened suddenly in a moment of revelation.

_Those girls are some of the biggest perverts I know. I should just talk to them directly._

_To be continued…_


	28. Chapter 28

"You think we had too much ice cream?"

"Naw."

They lay on the sofa some time later, Matthew's head resting on his brother's chest, electric blanket on, flipping idly through channels.

"This thing's not gonna electrocute me, is it."

"It's not gonna electrocute you, Al."

"You sure? Cause we're gonna fall asleep with it on, and…"

"I'm sure, yeah. I've used it like, a million times."

Matthew yawned, long arms stretching to their full span beyond the sofa.

"Hey, Matt—"

"Yeah?"

Alfred grinned. After he didn't say anything more for some time, Matthew slowly tilted his head to face him.

"What is it?"

The other boy laughed. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Matthew, leaning his head to whisper in his ear,

"_Think you can put on that…that thing for me?"_

Matthew blinked in a moment of confusion.

"That _thing_?" he asked at last, "What thing…?"

Silence for several seconds, and Alfred began very gently to bite at the cartilage shell of Matthew's ear.

"O—_ohhh_…the…my Review Order uniform?"

"Yeah, that."

"What, you mean like—_now?_"

More silence.

"Aw, Al, it's really late, I'm tired, and—"

Matthew gasped as he felt Alfred's tongue gradually begin to trace the delicate folds of his ear. His eyes closed slowly.

"…_and last time I needed to have it dry-cleaned after w…nn…ahh—_"

"After we what?" Alfred crooned.

"A…aft…_shh…shit_—"

Fifteen minutes later, Matthew stood before Alfred in the living room, decked from head to toe in his mountie uniform, gloved hands carefully straightening the creases from his blazer.

Gazing contentedly from the couch, Alfred smiled in approval. He brushed the blanket aside, slowly motioning for his brother to come close.

"This really isn't a play outfit, Al, I—"

He began removing his hat as he spoke, but, drawing him closer to himself, Alfred interrupted,

"Leave it on—"

"S—sorry—"

Alfred pulled him gently by the hand, guiding him onto the couch and on top of himself. His outfit smelled fresh and clean, _official_, Alfred began kissing him very slowly, long fingers raking across the expanse of his back.

"_This gets you off even more than my hockey uniform_,"

Matthew laughed softly, long legs sliding on either side of Alfred's narrow hips, hair falling on his face as he gently seized his mouth.

"Mm…the hockey uniform…"

Alfred crooned, "…we'll have to remember that one for tomorrow…"

"Yeah? You wanna play me, too?"

Alfred's laugh came low and smooth as he kissed Matthew back,

"Play you…? At hockey? Stupid sport like that…"

"You only say that 'cause you know I'd kick your ass,"

Matthew whispered, straddling Alfred's hips and deliberately pressing down.

"_Oh buddy, you're on_,"

Alfred's voice was just barely audible against Matthew's lips, strong arms coming all around his back, holding him very close. He pressed his hips up against Matthew, aware they both were hard, and, with a mischievous smile, he breathed against the other boy's ear,

"_Hey, Matthew—wanna top?_"

Matthew blushed all at once, moving back slowly as to gaze at Alfred's face.

"Ah—"

He started, unsure of what to say, and, gently running the back of his hand against his brother's cheek, Alfred whispered,

"It'd be a shame to get you out of that nice outfit, that way you could still keep it mostly on—"

Matthew laughed shyly against Alfred's palm.

His words floated very softly in response, as though admitting to a secretly profane fantasy,

"_You want me to fuck you in my mountie uniform?_"

Alfred slowly traced Matthew's lip with the tip of one finger.

"Maybe I do,"

he whispered, and Matthew parted his lips as the long digit went in.

"Would you like that?"

"Well, I—I've never—"

"I'll show you what to do,"

Alfred's eyes searched his face, watching as Matthew kissed his fingers and then began knowingly to lap at them, taking his palm with two gloved hands.

"You still taste sweet,"

he laughed softly, "from the ice cream…"

"Yeah?"

Matthew nodded.

"Ylike that?"

He didn't reply, but merely allowed the digits farther into his mouth, slowly sucking on them, eyes closed. He reached after with frustration when Alfred pulled his fingers away, glistening and wet with fluid; Alfred's hands were beautiful, large but slender and elegant, Matthew became aroused just looking at them sometimes, imagining them touching him—

Without being asked if he wanted more, he began carefully to pull at the elastic of Alfred's pajama bottoms, then at his briefs, and because he was told he was going to top, he carefully slid them the rest of the way down his brother's legs, tossing them gently to the floor.

Alfred's legs were beautiful, too, elegant and long, lined just the slightest bit with transparent yellow hair. Really, Matthew had always admired his brother's body, _he was perfect_, he thought, gloved hands tracing the taught surface of his abdomen to the depression at the inguinal canal and his thighs down from there, his hard member, his narrow hips, he found himself reaching for the boy's shirt, as well, _I wanna see you_, he thought—

Alfred cooperated without qualms and without a fuss, unashamed and unfazed by the prospect of lying disrobed even as Matthew was so formally attired above him—

His eyes glimmered with good-natured anticipation, fingers reassuring in Matthew's hair as he leaned slowly over him, kissing his forehead and his mouth and his neck, his temple, his cheeks and the pointed tip of his nose, _I love you, Alfred, America, my hero—_

Now Alfred reached slowly for Matthew's hips, fingers raking with careful attention along the pressed fabric of his blazer, the black strap of his belt, moving below to work blindly at the fly of his trousers, he propped himself by the elbows, beckoning Matthew to move closer to him.

Matthew did, watching as Alfred tugged at his boxers with his teeth, pulling them down just enough to let his member out, deliberately leaving his trousers still on.

"Ah—!_ God—!!_"

Matthew cried when suddenly he felt his mouth on him, head tilting back in surprise and hair ruffling as his hat fell in his wake. Weak and brittle, his hands roamed in his brother's hair, the strands weaving softly in-between.

He was wet, he could feel himself very wet in Alfred's mouth, liquid already emerging hot, just a little bit—

He blushed, whispering very softly,

"_P—please don't hurt me—_"

"_Ahhn_—_fuck, Matthew—"_

Alfred whispered back, lips very wet around his member, hairs standing on end at the nape of his neck at the innocent sound of his voice—

He allowed the member out of his mouth very carefully, attentively licking at the fluid so it won't drip onto Matthew's nice clothes, and he lifted the folds of his blazer just enough to gently kiss his stomach, he gazed up at him, yellow hair falling softly on his neck as he grinned,

"Scoot back a little."

Matthew did, caressing his brother's hair unawares before Alfred took his hands, confident and secure as he placed them under his own thighs and gently helped him guide them apart. Matthew gazed down at what he was doing, he wanted to touch Alfred's member, to take it into his mouth, as well,

"C—can I just—taste you a little—"

he whispered shyly, and Alfred inspected his face for a few moments in response.

"All right,"

he said, hardly one to turn that sort of offer down. Matthew bent forth carefully, hair scattering as he took the hard member in his hands, slowly lapping at him, at the tip and then farther down from there, Alfred's long legs still on either side of him as his brother urged him on, flat abdomen tensing—

Still very hard, himself, Matthew continued to lick at him, gloved hands gentle but firm on his inner thighs, tongue running along the hot length to the base, to the perineum and very gently to his opening from there, Matthew moaned softly as the long digits tightened in his hair, Alfred had done this to him so many times in the past—

His breath came hot and humid against his thighs, innocent, possessive but graceful, Alfred gazed at him as he gently brushed his hair aside. His voice came very affectionate and soft as he whispered to him,

"Go on, Matt—you wanna do it now?"

Matthew carefully disentangled himself from in-between his thighs, absently licking at his lips, face flushed. He gently caressed Alfred's leg as he nodded,

"Yeah, okay—"

"_Cmere_—"

As Matthew moved closer, Alfred carefully guided him into place, taking his brother's member in his hand, and Matthew gazed down with innocent curiosity, gasping at the warm touch unawares—

He cried very quietly when Alfred gently pressed him to his entrance, eyes closing, lips agape, slowly moving inside—

"Oh—_oh, shi—_"

His breath stopped—his entire body froze—he felt hot shivers course electric all throughout his spine—

Eyes big and blue, he slowly gazed down at Alfred, voice lodged silent at the back of his throat for about ten seconds before the realization hit him all at once—

"_Shit Al, I've done this before._"

Silence.

Alfred stared back with just as much astonishment.

Another twenty seconds went by.

"_What._"

He sputtered in reply.

More silence. Matthew stared down like a deer in headlights.

"Y…you…" Alfred murmured dryly.

Matthew nodded.

"N…not at the…"

Matthew nodded again.

More silence.

Alfred slumped backward in defeat, bringing his palm to his face.

"I—I'm sorry—"

"_God damn it, Matthew_…God, I…I can't believe this…"

"I'm sorry…"

"What the—_shit, man…with whom…?!_"

Matthew gazed down in mute panic. He shook his head helplessly,

"_I don't know…_"

Alfred stared incredulously for a few moments, then grumbled into his hand, removing his glasses to rub irritably at his brow.

"God, I can't believe…_those guys are so dead…_"

_To be continued…_


	29. Chapter 29

Eyes unwavering and intense, Alfred stared directly at Arthur, long fingers slowly unfastening the binds of his shirt. Arthur stared back in horror, somehow unable to turn away, unable to speak up, _this isn't happening, not my America, not my little boy—_

Alfred didn't say a word, but the message was all too clear—

_Don't you dare, don't you turn away from me—_

As the soft fabric of his shirt descended quietly from his back and onto the mattress beneath, Arthur's green eyes darted in humble astonishment over his naked form, _when did Alfred get so strong—when did Alfred get so big—_

He really wasn't a little boy anymore, shoulders large and broad, chest lean and slender with the slight protrusion of muscles beneath soft skin ripe with the end of adolescence—

When did all this happen? _When did my America become so—_

He still was cynical out on the battlefield, irritated and exhausted of Alfred's obnoxious fights and taunts, long since ready for this all to be over and for them all to go home and for Al to make himself useful for a change—

"No, you're not leaving this house, and you can't have your own place, and you can't go live out on your own."

_Put down that bayonet, Alfred, you don't even know how to use it._

"I want you to undress, too."

Alfred stared with absolute defiance, naked chest rising and falling with silent expiration, Arthur couldn't help staring back, _who are you_, "No, Alfred, don't—"

His voice came very soft, broken and laced with just the slightest bout of fear, _we're not going to do this, no—_

Alfred clenched his teeth, golden hair tremulous as he bit down in irritation, "God_ damn it…!_"

There were tears of anger in his eyes that he fought back, he really was beautiful, Arthur marveled with a mixture of astonishment and humility, and, despite it all, it genuinely pained him to see Alfred cry—

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matthew had hoped, had really wanted to believe that this would all be over, that maybe it really was all just a phase, _your brother has another thing coming,_ Arthur would smile gently at him, long fingers brushing with knowing affection through his hair—

_This isn't about me_, he thought humbly as he worked quietly at his desk, _I can't be so selfish, this is something much bigger than that—_

Arthur wanted to console Alfred, but he remained frozen before him instead, watching without a word as the other boy stared at him, eyes piercing fire through diffuse strands of hair, and no amount of compassion in the world could cure that, _don't you patronize me, don't you treat me like that—_

Battle is an ugly, wretched thing, there is no real glory, there is no romance, _is that really what you want, America, you're playing with fire_, at the end of the day, Britain really did know how to be cruel—

_Give it up, little boy, give up while you're ahead, you don't really want me to take you for real…?_

"_Very well._"

Arthur's eyes were narrow, cold, silent as he inspected Alfred's naked chest. Without a word, he slowly brushed the blanket aside, rising to his knees and climbing over the boy's lap.

Before Alfred could react, Arthur pushed him unto his back on the mattress, hard and direct, surprisingly strong, Alfred gasped in surprise—

He actually struggled, but Arthur's grip was curiously firm, he held Alfred's arms above his head by the wrists, _you wanna play it like that, let's see how well you fare—_

He wasn't gentle with him. He wasn't compassionate or fatherly or soft, there was blood on his hands, this was something Alfred had really always known, _the sun never sets on the British empire—_

Alfred gasped in surprise but he fought for composure, he clenched his teeth to hold back the tears, oh hell, _it really bloody hurt_—

Matthew stood at the front door in his night clothes, hand trembling on the handle as he watched Francis walk in from the stables, hair drenched and boots muddy with dirt, clothes stained with blood from battle—

_What's happening. What's happening. Why was France—_

"Matthew, je suis désolé,"

_Matthew, I'm sorry,_

Francis quietly said, eyes averted as he passed Matthew on his journey past the front door, and Matthew watched in horror, a dark feeling gradually setting over him like an encompassing endless night—

"Papa, où_—_où tu étais_—_qu_—_où est Alfred_—_"

_Papa, w—where were you—what—where's Alfred—_

He murmured, voice trembling, head slowly turning around, eyes wide and lined with a brittle film of tears, and as he inspected the blood all along his clothes, he started to feel very afraid, petrified and terribly sick—

Francis stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, long hair curling wetly in a disheveled mess as he gazed slowly at the younger boy.

"Je suis désole, Matthew—peut-être qu'un jour tu comprendras—"

_I'm sorry, Matthew—maybe someday you'll understand—_

Understand what. _Understand what…?_

"Pourquoi tu étais là-bas, papa, _qu'est ce qui ce passé…?_"

_Why were you out there, Papa, what's going on…?_

He felt the blood slowly drain from his face. _Traitor. Bastard._

"_Tu l'as aide._"

_You helped him._

He murmured very softly, hot tears wetting his eyes with disbelief,

"_Tu l'as aidé, tu as aidé Alfred à combattre—_"

_You helped him, you helped Alfred fight—_

All this. All this—why. Just to spite Arthur, just to piss him off—

"_T—tu as dit que ce n'était qu'une phase. Tu étais celui qui me l'as dit—_"

_Y—you said it's just a phase. You were the one who told me—_

"Ne veux-tu pas cela pour ton frère, Matt. Tu le sais. Il n'était pas heureux ici."

_Don't you want this for your brother, Matt. You know this. He wasn't happy here._

Matthew shook his head incredulously, slowly stepping back. He thought he would break down. He thought he would faint.

"Papa, comment as-tu pu? _Tu m'as menti__—__!_"

_Papa, how could you! You lied to me—!_

"_Es-ce que tu aime ton frère ou non__—!__ Matthew, merde, ce n'est pas à propos de toi__—__!_"

_Do you love your brother or not—! Matthew, God damn it, this isn't about you—!_

Matthew stared back in silence for several moments, the tears hot as they rolled down his face and to his chin from there, and, heart racing, hands brittle, he slowly shook his head.

"Non,"

he said very softly,

"ce n'est pas à propos de moi. Mais ce n'est pas à propos de toi et d'Arthur, non plus."

_No, this isn't about me. But it's not about you and Arthur, either._

That's really what it was, after all. It was Francis, wasn't it, who brought Alfred into Arthur's bed, _you finish what you started._

It wasn't easy for Alfred. Arthur was very strong as he held him down, many years his elder and far more practiced with experience, and Alfred really was just a boy, eyes closed and teeth clenched, fighting silently back, crying softly despite his determination not to let him see him cry—

He didn't ask him to stop, he didn't say it hurt or that he changed his mind, and, behind the harsh coldness in his eyes, Arthur was inwardly crying, too, forlorn and aching and broken, he loved Alfred, he didn't want it to be like this at all—

_Damn it, America, why—!_

He was gone. Alfred was gone. Arthur came home empty-handed that night, hair dripping and red coat filthy and drenched, avoiding Francis altogether, he stood out on the porch for a long time, staring off into the night at nothing in particular, bayonet hanging forgotten in his grasp—

He'd had at Alfred for a long time, the younger boy lying resigned and stoic beneath him, eyes dry and glazed and no longer affected or responsive to pain, _damn it, America, have you had enough—_

He didn't ask him to stop. He stared directly up at Arthur, eerily silent, _I can take this, and I don't need your empathy or your compassion—_

At his writing desk, Matthew slowly buried his face in his hands, frame thin and brittle as he collapsed, forlorn with despair, weeping silently, his entire body trembled as he cried, softly, alone, into the slender bend of his arm—

"_Damn it, God damn it, America, why—!_"

Arthur fell forth onto Alfred at last, aching and broken, tears finally rising to his eyes as he clenched his teeth hard, _damn it, I can't do this, I can't do this anymore—_

Alfred had stared blindly at the ceiling for a long time, lips parted and dry, hair scattering disheveled on the mattress beneath him, body long since impervious to the pain. Very slowly, his eyes rolled to gaze at Arthur without expression and without emotion.

Arthur was crying, crying hard, wretched and visibly defeated, and Alfred watched with silent curiosity, far now beyond the point of hurt—

"_You used to be—_

—_so big—_"

_To be continued…_

A/N: this chapter involves a parallel comparison between events on the battlefield and what transpired intimately between Arthur and Alfred long before.


	30. Chapter 30

"Aww," Alfred sighed in resignation, "come here."

He allowed Matthew to lie against his chest and exhaled softly as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"What's done is done, right?"

Matthew remained very quiet, because he couldn't think of anything to say other than _I'm sorry_, and he'd already said that twice, and it felt redundant and useless.

"You really do look cute in that outfit, you know,"

Alfred said softly, and Matthew smiled, quietly whispering back,

"You only think I'm cute because I look like you."

"Maybe."

He kissed Matthew's ear and then, grinning, he whispered,

"_Just less awesome._"

Matthew laughed, gently slapping Alfred's arm.

"You must be cold."

"Yeah, I think it's snowing out there—is it snowing?"

Matthew raised his head to look out the window.

"It's snowing, yeah."

Very gently, Alfred reached for Matthew's belt, carefully unfastening the buckle and then beginning to remove his clothes.

"Let's not get this wrinkled. Wear this again for me the day after tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"Yeah, cause tomorrow you're wearing your hockey uniform for me."

Matthew gazed downward, watching his brother's large hands at work.

"Tomorrow I'm owning you at hockey."

"We still doing that?"

"Hell yes we're still doing that…"

"That so…"

Alfred gently parted Matthew's red blazer, carefully pulling it off as Matthew helpfully held out his arms.

He felt sad, there formed a nagging emptiness in him he could neither deny nor displace, where there hadn't been one before. He loved Matthew, he really did, and some part of him felt as though already he'd lost his hold on him.

_I have to do something_, he thought with quiet determination, realizing that because he'd never asked Matthew to top before, someone else had beat him to it. It was totally England's fault.

Matthew's soft hair ruffled as Alfred pulled his undershirt off from him, then he gently tapped him on the knee and smiled, "hey, let me have your foot—"

Matthew lifted his leg so that Alfred could take off his boot, then the other one, then he watched his brother climb slowly off the couch to remove his trousers.

_That's right. Matthew is my kid brother, nobody can take that away. _

As Matthew lay against him under the blanket, Alfred gently ran his hands along his naked back, the smooth curve of his behind and then his thighs, and Matthew very gently kissed his neck , arms all around him, eyes closed.

"Know what, to hell with that,"

Alfred whispered at his ear,

"It doesn't matter if you've done this before."

Very carefully, his teeth closed just at the cartilage shell of Matthew's ear, and he crooned to him very softly,

"_You wanna fuck me, baby brother?_"

* * *

"You guys are some of the biggest perverts I know."

Alfred sat across from Hungary and Taiwan, very seriously gesturing with his hands.

When first he called them up, they thought for sure that he was Matthew, and that Matthew was coming over, and that he'd taken them up on their invitation. But Alfred was just as good. They looked about the same, after all.

"I seriously wish I'd been there at the party when the whole…that…the…but freaking England had to drag me up to the attic, and…"

Taiwan giggled. Hungary held out her hand for a hi-five.

Alfred sighed, cluelessly oblivious to how much the two of them were entertained by this.

"Anyway listen, I need your help…!"

The girls grinned, ever so happy to oblige.

"What were you guys doing up in the attic?"

"Haha! …well, you know Arthur, and what a total pervert he is…"

He had their undivided attention now.

"Anyway, that's not important—"

"No, no, it is, really."

"Yeah, it really is."

"Arthur's hot."

"Yeah, I know, right?"

Alfred looked up, gaze alternating between Taiwan and Hungary and back.

"Well, I wouldn't say _hot_, I mean…I'm obviously hotter—"

"No, no, you're hot, too."

"I know, right!…well—well, anyway, look, it boils down to this—I need your help."

"Sweet."

"Yes?"

Alfred stared at them, grinning with absolute determination.

"I'm not perverted enough for Matthew…!"

Silence.

"Elizabeta, pass the M&Ms."

"Oh, sorry, here."

"M&Ms…! Can I have some?"

"Oh! Sure, yeah—"

"Right, so—" Alfred sighed at the prospect of the conversation to follow, "as you know, Matthew—he—he did all that stuff—at the party, I mean—"

"_Ohhh_ yeah,"

the girls hi-fived each other again.

"—and basically I need advice on being more…dirty? Because I think maybe that's what he wants—"

"_Nice_."

"_Niiice_."

"So you and Matthew…._do stuff…?_"

"_Oh, shit, Taiwan, you didn't—_"

"_Shh, shh, let him answer—_"

"Well, we—"

"Cause that's what France said, he was like, _does your brother really play with you enough_—"

"Oh, that was so hot—"

Alfred gazed up, deflated. "Francis said what?"

"Francis was like—" Hungary didn't finish her sentence, because it was really quite perverse. She turned to her friend instead, softly whispering, _Matthew, you're so tight, does your brother really play with you enough—_

Taiwan gasped, then laughed softly, "Oh—_oh yeah_…hehe…"

"Hahahaha—what?" Alfred insisted, still grinning, "What did that bastard say?"

"_God, he's so cute right now. He's getting all jealous like._"

"He—he said you don't play enough with Canada."

"Oh! Well we're playing hockey later today, as a matter of fact—"

"Oh my God, they're gonna play hockey…! In cute hockey uniforms…"

"I don't think he meant sports, he meant something more like, you know."

Silence.

"…oh! Yeah—haha! I guess Francis would mean something profane…"

"So, do you guys play like that, too?"

"_Oh my God, Hungary…!_"

Alfred gazed up at the girls.

"Well! Yeah, but—"

"Oh! _Twincest—_"

Taiwan whispered to her friend.

"—but I need your help with ideas on how to be a big, disgusting pervert the way France and Russia are—"

"Oh, hell yes."

There was something unsettling about the way the ladies responded in approval to this; even an exclamation this brief was, in essence, a first-hand eyewitness account.

"Did…" Alfred reluctantly began, but then looked them both directly in the eye, and, with utmost bravery, he asked aloud,

"_Did Matthew like it?_"

The girls stared, mouth agape, and then they both burst into a fit of giggling.

"_Oh, fuck, he's just so freaking cute—_"

Taiwan nodded.

"Yes….hehe…yes, Matthew liked it…" And then, murmuring aside, "_Good thing Belarus wasn't there, she's so possessive of Russia…she'd have gone all kinds of psycho on his ass..._"

Damn it! Curse that pervert, France; and curse that bastard, Russia; Alfred hated them both in that moment, it hurt him terribly to hear that apparently their unwholesome, un-American obscenity was exactly what his brother liked—

"Japan was really gentle with him, though," Hungary pointed out.

Alfred blinked.

"Yeah, he was, huh," Taiwan replied.

"What did you say?"

"Oh, yeah, Kiku was there too, he was really sweet to Matthew."

"Yeah, and Matthew also liked that."

"That was also really hot."

Alfred stared at the girls for a long time.

"Japan? Really…?"

"Yeah, I don't think he was gonna get involved, but then Francis…"

Hearing this was somehow consoling to Alfred. Maybe if he spoke to Japan—maybe there was a way to get Matthew's interest back that didn't involve doing cheapening, degrading stuff like Russia and France—

"Awesome! Thanks, you guys!" he said as he hopped cheerfully off the couch, and the ladies quickly stood up in disapproval,

"You're leaving?"

"We still—we haven't given you advice on perverted stuff yet—"

"Yeah, thanks! I think I know just what I'm gonna do."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Can we watch you and Matt make out?"

"…_Hungary…!_"

"What? Haha, you girls are so funny!"

"Hahahahahaha. Can we?"

"So we can help better."

"Yep, you bet! See yas!"

"_Yesss…_"

"Okay! Well, you go on then, and get back to us on that!"

"Don't forget to get back to us."

"Yes, it's important."

"For helping."

"Helping, yes."

On his way back home, Alfred wondered to himself just how his brother had ended up with Japan. Neither of them struck him as particularly self-indulgent, really, they were both quite well-mannered and timid. It didn't piss him off the way it pissed him off to think of Matthew being made into Ivan and Francis' playing, humiliated and degraded that way—

He made a mental note to go and visit Japan, and also once again to go smack up France and Russia—but he had to kick Matthew's ass at hockey, first.

_To be continued…_


	31. Chapter 31

"Who owns you! _Who owns you, say it…!_"

"Ah! Shit, damn it, Matthew, get off…!"

"_Say it, Al!!_"

"Ow—_you own me, okay? _Now get the hell off me—!"

Having beaten Alfred at hockey no fewer than five times, Matthew had his brother in a painful headlock on the rink floor, victoriously straddling him from behind.

"Now say _America sucks at hockey_. Say it!!"

"Nev—ah!! Fine! _America sucks at hockey!!_...._and Canada sucks at everything el—_"

Matthew prepared to tackle him again, but Alfred grabbed his brother in time, swinging him directly onto the floor.

"_Shit—!_"

Matthew exclaimed, out of breath and red in the face, wisps of hair protruding awkwardly from just under his helmet.

Alfred pulled his own helmet off, hair entirely disheveled and still breathing hard, and, still smiling, he leaned down to kiss Matthew.

"Go easy on me, bro," he teased ironically, voice very low and soft, "I'm still sore from last night."

"_S—sorry—_"

"I'm kidding,"

Alfred laughed, and then, lips moving slowly against Matthew's,

"_It didn't hurt, it felt good—_"

Matthew blushed, coyly grinning despite himself, and his long arms came around the other boy as he began to kiss him back.

"I—_I thought—it felt good, too—_"

Matthew curiously gazing down, Alfred's long legs sliding on either side of him, the night before, the both of them naked, Alfred's hand on his as he slowly stroked himself;

"Go on, you're wet enough,"

Alfred's voice had come gentle, hoarse, he pulled him closer by the hand, long waves of yellow hair draping Matthew's face, he gasped as Alfred gently slid the tip of his member against the opening, and remained silent when Alfred looked up at him then,

"Does this feel good for you?"

Matthew nodded shyly, absently biting his lip in anticipation, very aroused—

"_Go on_,"

Alfred prompted, large hand at Matthew's hip as he urged him forth; they both gasped when the head went in, Alfred gently stroking the other boy's thigh. Matthew was very wet at that time, the fluid running in clear rivulets from the opening to the soft skin beneath and the couch cushions from there, Matthew would blush the next morning as he tried to no avail to wash the upholstery—

He was innocent, gentle, perpetually afraid of hurting his brother, and Alfred brought his hands to Matt's behind, firmly pressing him forth the rest of the way.

"Sh—_shit…!_"

Matthew whispered, eyes fluttering shut and lips dry, agape, heart racing in his chest, _God, it felt so good_—

There came again the very vague recollection of somehow doing this before, Matthew genuinely wondered how it came to be, and more than that, he wondered _with whom—_

"Matthew, you're so beautiful,"

Alfred said softly, one hand leaving his hip to brush gently through his hair, and Matthew turned his head to kiss the large palm, hair slowly swinging as he began very gently to move against him,

"_Y—you are, too—_"

"I know,"

Alfred whispered, pulling him down so he could kiss his lips. He gently brought Matthew's hand to his neglected anatomy, their long fingers interweaving there, Matthew's breath flowing humid against Alfred's mouth, desperate and warm—

"_My only beloved_,"

he whispered, words coming so soft he wondered if he'd said them at all,

"_my hero—_"

* * *

Alfred had gotten himself quite lost on his way to Kiku's house. Still sore from a number of bruises Ivan had given him in his most recent attempt to 'kick Russia's ass,' he'd waded through the intricate network of subways and trains, towering a good six inches above most everyone else in the crowd.

The food was good, though, and everything was immaculately clean, and even though he was tired, Alfred arrived at Kiku's door in high spirits, mentally having already invited himself to stay the night.

Kiku, who wasn't expecting visitors, very cautiously opened the door.

"A—America-san—"

he murmured with quiet astonishment, awkwardly extending his hands to accept the bizarre-looking candy that Alfred had brought for him as a gift.

He inspected Alfred's face for signs of awareness as to what had transpired at the party, but all he found there was good-natured enthusiasm and visible traces of fatigue.

"Hey, Japan! Boy, good thing you're home, can I use your bathroom?"

"Ah—"

Kiku wondered to himself why Alfred didn't call before inviting himself over, and, unsure of how to respond, he merely mumbled back,

"S—sure—it's this way—"

He watched Alfred step inside and quickly reminded him to take off his shoes before showing him the way. He blushed inwardly as he remembered everything he saw, that strong, beautiful body, naked—

_Why am I thinking about that again._

Just what did he come here for?

He heard the sound of water running, then the bathroom door opening and Alfred whistling merrily to himself on his journey to the living room. Kiku stepped out of the kitchen with two cups of tea, quietly setting them down on the coffee table before taking his place at Alfred's side.

Really, after he'd made himself so obscenely comfortable in Alfred's bedroom, Kiku thought, he had no right to complain about this unannounced visit.

"Hey, thanks…!"

Alfred smiled, reaching for the cup even though he'd just about had his fill of Arthur's disgusting tea, but this stuff smelled different somehow. He was quite content to be there; after days of aggravation over Francis and Ivan's supposed treatment of Matthew, hearing that Kiku treated him well roused his curiosity, he felt quite grateful and relieved somehow.

Gently bringing his own cup to his lips, Kiku turned his gaze to the other boy.

"What's on your mind, America-san?" he asked.

Blue eyes twinkling, Alfred grinned at Kiku as he replied,

"I know all about that stuff at the party…!"

Kiku nearly spat his tea out on the table.

He stared at Alfred with pure, uninterrupted panic, eyes big and terrified.

"Y…you do…?"

he just barely managed to say.

Alfred nodded, still smiling big, "hey, this stuff's much better than Arthur's disgusting tea, what's in this?"

Several moments passed before Kiku managed again to find his voice. "Ah—I—that—"

_I'm sorry! I'm sorry…!_

He was on the very verge of bursting into a fit of apologetic pleading when Alfred then went on to say,

"Because of that jerk, England, I spent that entire night up in the attic, and then those perverts, France and Russia, completely took advantage of my brother."

Kiku stared, the blood slowly returning to his face as he realized with an odd sense of amusement that Alfred didn't actually know anything about—

He closed his eyes, exhaling a long sigh of relief. It still wasn't right; he would have to let him know—

"America-san—"

he started very softly, but Alfred interrupted him, continuing with his own train of thought,

"And after that, I totally kicked the crap out of those two," he said, despite the fact that, while he'd smacked up France with some success, both times Ivan had completely beaten him to a pulp.

"—but then yesterday Taiwan and Hungary told me you were there too, and that you treated Matthew well—"

_Treated Matthew well_. Is that what that was? Taking part in something so cheapening and perverse, that counted as treating Matthew well? He never could understand Westerners…or perhaps—

Kiku raised his eyes to Alfred, very serious now as he proceeded to set down his cup.

"I'm sorry, America-san, but—"

Now Alfred turned to face him, long legs maneuvering as he crossed one over the other, and Kiku couldn't stop himself from staring, remembering those strong, beautiful legs, naked, his suntanned hips, his slender behind—

Kiku blushed all at once, gaze turning immediately back down to his drink as the other boy continued undisturbed,

"But then even after the party—like, when he was totally sober—Matthew—he's been all…interested…in doing disgusting stuff, and it's just been a nightmare, _Jeesh!_"

This was odd. Kiku thought back to the way Matthew lay beneath him then, delicate, shattered, very nearly in tears, he had consoled him, that's right, because Matthew _wasn't happy_—had he really become interested in that sort of thing?

He bowed his head in modesty—that's right. Matthew didn't feel humiliated then. Francis and Ivan's treatment didn't actually make him feel bad. It was—

"America-san, there are some things you should know."

_He was sad because he knew I was thinking of you at the time._

Matthew's body was beautiful, too. He really did look just like Alfred; maybe thinner, more pale, but just as slender and elegant and tall—nevertheless, Kiku remembered that, even then, he had thought of Alfred all throughout—

"The ladies told me Matthew liked the way you treated him, and I think that's important, I want some advice—"

_Advice…?_ Oh, this was wrong. This was terribly, terribly wrong.

"Were you intimate with him?" Alfred asked, undisturbed, ignoring entirely Kiku's feeble attempts at conveying information, "Can you tell me what you did? Can you show me?"

_Show him? _Now Kiku began to feel cheap.

"Jones-san…! With all due respect, I'm not like that, you know…!"

Not like that? Not like what? _Oh, I don't join in public acts of debauchery, I merely spy on others and watch from within their private quarters—_

"Exactly!" Alfred motioned with one pointed finger for emphasis. "Oh, _thank God_ you're not like that. And, boy, was I relieved to hear that Matthew liked that."

Kiku thought back to that night; Alfred really had it all wrong. _I really should never have gotten involved._ He never had meant to. It's true that Francis had called him over, but he could have declined.

He could have—but—

He hadn't forgotten the look in Francis' eyes when first he beckoned to him then. Blue, seductive eyes, his lips glistening red, enticing and slick with fluid trailing farther to his chin—

Matthew's narrow, innocent thighs—

He had wondered to himself then, _is that what Alfred is like—_

Kiku turned his head away.

"So, anyway, long story short, can you show me what you did with him? So maybe I can get my brother's interest back—"

"Sh…_show_ you?"

Behind the heavy sway of his hair, Kiku was blushing bright crimson, delicate fingers curled at his mouth; for a brief moment, he thought of Arthur and Alfred up in the attic, Alfred's voice coming hoarse, the wet echo of flesh striking flesh—

"I—I'm sorry, Jones-san, but—"

_But what? But I'm not so innocent after all? After I said explicitly that I'm 'not like that'? _

Gaze averted, he watched from the corner of his eye as Alfred's long fingers danced around his cup; the small container seemed miniscule, a doll's accessory in his large hands. Was Alfred really asking him to—

"Just real quick. Just for tonight, I'm really kinda curious, you know?"

_Curious_.

"—please stop. There's really some stuff you should know."

At last, he had Alfred's attention; but now that he did, he found it very difficult to proceed from there on.

Very slowly, without meeting his eyes, Kiku went on then to relay the events that transpired downstairs of which he was part.

"_Those unbelievable bastards_,"

Alfred seethed, listening with undivided attention to the first detailed account of said events that thus far he'd heard. Kiku had meant to make clear that he wasn't some savior, that his hands weren't clean, but Alfred's eyes glittered no less with quiet gratitude when Kiku told him how he'd held Matthew in his arms—

And also—

Curiously enough, Alfred found himself thinking it was all quite—

—_arousing?_

When he finished explaining, Kiku hesitated, having long since decided that Alfred also had to know about what happened after that. He turned his gaze upward very hesitantly, big eyes dark and colored undeniably with shame, surprised to find Alfred gazing back with infinite gentleness, patience and warm regard.

Alfred's boyish grin. His yellow hair, falling softly on his forehead in diffuse, shiny bundles, his broad shoulders, youthful and strong—

"Aw, come here, you—!"

Alfred laughed, and suddenly his enormous arms came all around the other boy, and Kiku froze in his place, far too astonished for words.

"A—A—A—_America-san, please…!_"

"You're just like Matthew, you're so embarrassed and cute—!"

"N—no, it's not like that, Am—"

_Embarrassed and cute?_ Kiku was far older than both of those boys. He struggled weakly in Alfred's embrace, but it was useless all throughout—

The comforting contact of his chest. The soft smell of fabric, the very fine traces of golden blonde stubble just at his cheek, the warmth at the crook of his neck—

Kiku held his breath, eyes closed, heart racing; oh, he was hopelessly aroused.

"A…America-san should know—"

he just barely managed, every fiber of his body fighting to hold himself back,

"_I was thinking of you at that time—_"

Eyes closed, Kiku waited for Alfred's long arms to slide away, for him to let go—

But he didn't let go.

"What?"

"When I was with Canada-san, I—I was thinking of you—"

"Of—of me?"

Ever accustomed to being the center of attention, Alfred hardly seemed surprised. He'd naturally assumed that everyone thought of him at least half the time.

"So, you see, I—"

Kiku's hair was very soft. It smelled sweet, like shampoo, and he felt so delicate and thin in Alfred's arms, so fragile, it reminded him of holding Matthew, in a way—

Alfred was curious about the two of them together, and, with childlike curiosity, he then went on to ask,

"So, can I kiss you then?"

Kiku's eyes went wide, staring dead ahead past the slender bend of Alfred's shoulder.

"I…I…b-_beg your p-pardon…?!_"

His entire body trembled then. Eyes tightly shut, he prepared to push the other boy away, but he felt frozen, he couldn't move—

The dark room. Lying on Alfred's bed. _Lapping the fluid from Arthur's spent body after the two of them had finished—_

"I—_America-san should know, I—I saw him and England-san in the attic—_"

Silence.

Neither of them moved after he'd said that. Kiku's eyes opened tentatively, then darted with nervous anticipation around the room; he was almost relieved that he managed to say it aloud.

"You saw…"

Kiku nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

Alfred tried to remember what exactly they did or didn't do in the attic then. It was all quite profane, the way he remembered—damn that Arthur…

"…and—_in your bedroom, too_,"

he added very softly, voice almost inaudible then.

Silence.

"You…did?"

"I'm sorry."

More silence.

"Was…I good?"

Kiku blinked. "Wh…"

"Haha, just kidding, of course I was good! Seriously though, what were you doing in there?"

Kiku blushed, his eyes all the while quite averted; Alfred still hadn't released his hold.

"I—"

he whispered, voice very embarrassed and small,

"_I was watching. Deliberately_."

He swallowed hard, terrified but curiously relieved.

"I'm sorry, Jones-san. So—so, as you can see—I'm really not so clean after all—"

Silence.

"Wow. I mean—really? Really, you were there that whole time? Was it that hot?"

"Ah—!"

Alfred laughed, "Haha, I'm just kidding, seriously, you watched the whole thing?"

"America-san also should know—"

Kiku raised his eyes very slowly, courageously, only inches away from Alfred's face,

"I—"

_really, really like you—_

Alfred watched the confession unfold, Kiku visibly trembling in his arms, voice low and wavering soft, yeah, it was pretty weird that he had been there, he thought he may truly never understand Easterners.

Alfred imagined Arthur's face when he'd tell him that, the entire time, the two of them weren't alone—oh, Arthur would freak for sure, it would be super awesome, Alfred laughed aloud at the prospect.

Kiku froze.

"You're laughing. Why are you laughing…!"

"Oh—" Alfred smirked, "no reason…"

Then, growing quiet, he faced Kiku directly, hundreds of years his younger but many times his size,

"You were gonna say something before,"

He said with childlike interest, somehow innocent and naïve, iridescent gusts of sunlight dancing softly in his eyes, and, hundreds of years his elder, Kiku took his face with gentle hands—

Alfred gazed patiently back, curious and expectant, eyelashes fluttering shut.

"_It was nothing_,"

Kiku mouthed, very carefully bringing his mouth to his,

"_nothing at all_."

_To be continued…_


	32. Chapter 32

The pain streamed through Matthew's chest like heavy downpour, he was weak, defeated and, hands white and brittle on the wooden windowpane, lips tightly, harshly sealed, eyelids aching, he knew, he knew for a long time this moment would come, but it hurt, holy hell, did it ever hurt, the memories came flooding through him, reverberating vivid through his very flesh, too vivid, too harsh, they tugged at his heartstrings with cruelty unrestrained—

It was Francis who found him doubled over against the wall, in the corner of his room between the writing desk and the bed, and even though he was the perpetrator, even though he helped it all occur, Matthew fell readily in his arms, forlorn and exhausted with grief, too weak to protect himself, far too paralyzed to move—

_Shh, je t'en prie, ne pleure pas—_

_There, hush, please don't cry—_

Very gently, Francis lifted him up, weak and defeated, strong arms lacing underneath the fragile bend of his knees, the slender curve of his back, outside the hail came down against the windowsill like frozen little rocks, Matthew weakly buried his head against Francis' chest, hands coming around his broad shoulders as of their own accord.

Even now that he had grown to his full height, just as tall as Alfred and towering just a bit beyond Francis, himself, he was still somehow a little boy, innocent and soft, delicate, the tears streamed in hot, transparent trails down his face and onto the stubbled skin of Francis' neck, and Francis set him gently down on his bed, large hands careful in his hair, paternal, affectionate and sorrowful—

Matthew was defeated, undone and weak, speechless, he clung on to Francis with silent despair,

_Pourquoi, pourquoi as-tu fait ça? Pourquoi as-tu aidé mon frère à partir—_

_Why, why did you do it, why did you help my brother leave—_

_Mon héros, mon bien-aimé—_

_My hero, my only beloved—_

''Ce n'était pas correct,''

_It wasn't right,_

Francis whispered softly, fingers moving fluid in Matthew's long hair,

"Ce n'était pas correct de la part d'Arthur de retenir Alfred contre sa volonté—"

_Arthur holding Alfred back, it wasn't right—_

_Malgré tout, même si tout cela était vrai, pourquoi m'as-tu trompé, pourquoi m'as-tu embarqué là-dedans—_

_Even so, even if it all were true, why did you mislead me, why did you string me along—_

He was far too weak, entirely too frail and devastated, delirious with grief, and, without a word, he buried his head in Francis' neck, slowly, feverishly kissing the hot skin there, gently, delicately, his touch ethereal and soft—

Eyes closed, Francis became acutely aware of what the other boy was doing, and, carefully meaning to disengage, he whispered in low tones,

"Non_—_non Matthew, ce n'est pas bien—"

_No—no, Matthew, this isn't right—_

But he couldn't quite pull himself away, he felt shivers run all throughout the skin of his back, he couldn't stop him, he couldn't pry him away, Matthew was broken, desperate and forlorn—

He didn't kiss him like a child, he kissed him like a stranger, _like a man—_

Still innocent, affectionate and soft, but determined all the while, _deliberate, possessive—_

It was with great reluctance that Francis pulled himself away, and, out of breath, he gazed at the other boy, eyes questioning and wide, and Matthew's gaze was different when he gazed at him back, still defeated, still without a word, his eyes were deflated, but _hungry_—

Francis watched in silent astonishment as the long-fingered hands came on either side of his face, gentle, tremulous, Matthew pressed his mouth to his, weak but deliberate, and Francis felt his entire body go on fire, oh, it was torment to resist, for a brief moment he thought he could easily have this boy, he could easily eat him alive—

For a brief moment, he actually found himself kissing back—

Had there ever really been such a thing, _innocent_, or _perverted_, or _obscene_, aren't we all merely human, _doesn't everybody want—_

"Mon cher petit Matthew, mon pauvre petit garçon,"

_My dear little Matthew, my poor little boy,_

Francis whispered, hands gentle in his hair, he allowed Matthew to have at him, eyelashes closing, breath coming hot, it was merely natural, wasn't it, it was only fair—

Francis had a hand in helping Alfred get away, after all—

He watched with patient curiosity as the slender digits of Matthew's hand worked at the buttons of his shirt, brittle, tremulous and warm, and Francis held back, hell, did he ever hold back, he could have had him in a heartbeat, _he could have devoured him whole—_

He thought of how jealous he had felt when Alfred slept with Arthur—

He would have had at Matthew just to get him back—

But it wasn't right. Matthew thought already, didn't he, that he helped Alfred merely just to piss Arthur off, and, to some extent, he did—

But the prospect of using Matthew in this intimate sense, just for revenge—

_He had loved Matthew far too much. _

Or Maybe Matthew was getting back at Alfred.

_Ou peut-être qu'il essaie de se venger—_

_Ou peut-être veut-il simplement—_

_Or maybe he's getting back at me—_

_Or maybe, he just merely wants—_

Tears streaming hot down the side of his face, Matthew pressed his mouth to Francis' neck, passionately, lips hard and teeth biting, Francis gasped with a mixture of arousal and surprise, large hands gentle in his hair, paternal,

"_Alors cette fois, les crêpes ne suffiront pas…_"

_So this time, crepes won't be enough…_

he whispered then, slowly urging him forth.

* * *

Francis had Arthur in his lap.

"For the last time, England, I told you—_that glass there is yours._"

Too drunk to listen and too overcome with arousal to move, Arthur merely clung onto Francis' naked shoulders, cursing him through clenched teeth as he rode on him then, hair disheveled, cheeks red and flushed—

"Here—"

Francis said softly, reaching for the tray with one slender arm, holding the goblet impressively steady as he brought it to Arthur's mouth.

"_Nn—_"

Arthur murmured, trying uselessly to drink, still stringing expletives at Francis just over the rim of the glass, calling him a perverted wine bastard even as he reached deliberately for the very same wine—

The red liquid spilled over the edge and onto Arthur's cheeks and his chin, dripping down to his chest and Francis' arm from there on, it was a disheveled, terrible mess, Francis laughed with amusement,

"_Angleterre , tu es décourageant—_"

_England, you're hopeless—_

"Don't talk to me in that despicable language of yours—!"

_Angleterre, je t'aime—_

_England, I love you—_

Francis kissed him wetly, affectionately, mouth hot against his own, the bittersweet taste of the wine streaming down along both their chins, both their faces, they both drank until there was nothing left in the glass, until most of it had spilled down their bodies and the blanket and sheets, Francis held Arthur tightly in his arms all the while, tormenting him, teasing, wickedly smiling as he bit just at the shell of his ear, only to hear him get upset, only to hear him curse him back, _he really had loved him with all of his heart—_

He gasped, eyes closing, red lips smiling with a mixture of enjoyment and pain, Arthur bit hard into his neck when he came, the fluid coming liquid and hot, running white along Francis' long fingers and the naked expanse of his chest, together with the red streamlets of wine, and, delirious, out of breath, Francis continued to move within him all the while, wetly, hot with desperation, obscene, Arthur's hands clawing hard enough at his back to leave marks, _I hate you, I hate you—_

Francis' strong hands on either side of Arthur's narrow hips, holding him steady, holding him wet, moist bundles of hair clinging to his forehead when at last he came, as well, the liquid glistening all along Arthur's inner thighs even before he'd pulled out, and, still not letting him go, Francis whispered against the other boy's mouth,

"So do you still hate me? Have you had enough?"

"_I hate you even more_,"

Arthur whispered, out of breath, eyes closed and expiration hot as he seized Francis' mouth, not letting him go even after Francis has pulled out from inside him, hand reaching weakly for his goblet from the table nearby, only to discover to his dismay that there was nothing left—

Arthur still straddled over his thighs, Francis grinned maliciously as he held the crystal goblet up before both their eyes, as to taunt the other boy, _who's the wine bastard now, you selfish little jerk, now it's all gone—_

The crystal glittered clear in the dim chamber, luxuriant and wet as it reflected the candlelight from the chandelier, a thing of beauty in Francis' slender hand, _Francis was beautiful, too—_

_Angleterre, enfoiré d'égoïste, je parie que tu en veux plus—_

_You selfish English jerk, I'll bet you want more—_

Arthur's green eyes rolled with quiet curiosity as Francis brought the goblet farther down, large hand still steady at his hip as he pressed the glass deliberately to the slick surface of Arthur's inner thigh, and Arthur gasped at the cold contact, lips agape as he watched, the clear fluid streaming forth from his naked skin and past the glittering crystal edge, into the glass—

_You disgusting wine bastard—_

Francis' blue eyes twinkled in the candlelight, tongue running absently just at the edge of his mouth,

"_Yeah, I'll bet you're still thirsty, I'll bet you want more—_"

Arthur watched with mute horror as Francis slowly raised the glass, the white fluid shining clear from the rim and along the crystal edge, glistening liquid and warm, he pressed it hard to Arthur's mouth,

_Vas-tu boire?_

_Will you drink?_

Arthur hesitated.

Hands coming on either side of the glass, he stared directly at Francis, slowly decanting the goblet just at his mouth, drinking with strange hunger, undeniably aroused, Francis tilted the glass farther inside, waiting for him to finish before pulling it away.

"_You're so beautiful_,"

He whispered, slowly moving in to kiss him then, hand weakly placing the glass back on its tray as he turned his full attention to the boy in his arms, he pulled him down with him back onto the bed, they were drunk, they both were terribly, terribly drunk, Arthur continued to kiss him for a long time after that—

_What if we got together, you and I. _

_What if we raised a little family—_

—_a family? With you? You drunk, wretched creature, just what in the hell would you ever know about something like that?_

_To be continued…_

_--_

_A/N: Credit for the lines in French goes to NinjaMatty and Capitain Pickle– thank you so much!_


	33. Chapter 33

"Um."

Alfred had really been patient for quite a long time. It was impressive, considering his typically short attention span, but, truth be told, he'd hardly sit still for so long were he not amused to begin with.

And it was quite amusing, really, no one had ever tied him up this way before.

Kiku had been gentle, delicate hands proficient and kind as he worked at the latches and clasps, dark eyes patient with knowing affection, this sort of binding is called _kinbaku_, he explained to Alfred, it was an art.

Under the binds, Alfred was naked as the day he was born, and, many years his elder, Kiku gazed at his body with quiet appreciation, handling him deliberately with utmost care, because Alfred was somebody special.

It didn't feel bad. It felt tight, pressing and odd, but not bad, it felt erotic, Alfred hadn't thought it could be done up that way.

He hadn't thought Kiku had it in him, but he was young, he was naive and unassuming, he figured that Japan was simply _innocent_ and America would show him _what it's all about_.

Kiku thought he was really very cute.

His fingers ran gently over his naked skin and the alternating ridges of the binds, dark eyes quiet and mind deep in thought, _shall we take some pictures, shall we have you painted this way?_

Truly, Alfred didn't really mind.

He had no qualms about being painted nude, he had no qualms about being nude to begin with, and no qualms about being tied up, because, apparently, Kiku knew how to tie you up so that it didn't feel bad.

He did things to Alfred that Alfred never thought of doing before, he gently threaded in a catheter, he dressed him partly like a girl, he put a tiny vibrator inside him that he promised eventually he would take out—

"Shall we call up England-san,"

He gently had asked, lips moving softly against Alfred's ear,

"Shall we have him come over?"

And Alfred would really have loved to reply, but he found that, for once, he could not find the words, not with that thing there inside him, tied up and motionless so he couldn't even fidget very much—

He really was beautiful, Kiku had thought, his cheeks flushed with youth, that innocent gaze in his eyes, childlike, curious, he wasn't unhappy, he didn't resist, but he was astonished, that was for sure.

Strong guy like that, he could probably break out of the binds if he tried—

But he didn't break out, he waited with patience as Kiku had parted his thighs, the white plastic cable emanating wet from inside of him and onto the sheets, _how does that feel? Shall we take this out?_

But he left it inside, he left it in even as he took his place between Alfred's legs, even as gently he made his way in, hands careful and knowing just under his thighs, _oh, it felt good_—

Alfred gasped, crying out despite himself, strange things like these, he never expected that they could be done so expertly well, that something like that could ever feel good,_ that it could be done with so much patience and love_—

Was this perverted?

Was this profane?

Was there ever really such a thing as _innocent,_ _doesn't everybody want_—

It was Matthew who beckoned to Francis back then, it was Francis that time who declined,

_Please_, Matthew whispered, he pleaded and cried, _you drove him away_, _you take care of this now, now you make it up to me, you pay the price_—

And that was why Francis had slept with him then, not to spite Arthur, not to to please his own lust, his own drives, his own heart, not to devour the boy in his arms, Matthew was timid and quiet and shy, but he, too, was broken, and wanted to try—

On one side of the fruit display, there stood Roderich; on the other side, Vash, with Liechtenstein quietly holding his hand.

_After all those times I'd saved your ass in battle_—

"_What are you doing here_,"

Vash's eyes narrowed, and Roderich stayed quiet,

_I'd ask you the same._

"_Let's go_,"

Vash told his sister, who tugged along quietly, nodding her head, but she briefly looked back—

Kiku's lips were gentle, careful and soft, he kissed Alfred's forehead, his ear and his neck, his mouth, he was passionate, quiet, his hands steady and hot on his member, glistening wet, the fluid streamed out from between Alfred's thighs and onto the mattress beneath, he was shivering, absent, tremulous, warm, even the binds all around him felt sensitive, wet, he was wet all around, he kissed him back hungrily, desperately, he came without being touched from the outside at all, he collapsed against Kiku, astonished and spent, abdomen shivering in after-effect when, very carefully, Kiku pulled the plastic wire out at last—

The small, shining gadget came out slick from inside him, covered in fluid and vibrating quietly with a low hum—

"This will take a few minutes, please hold still—"

Kiku told him as he began then to work at undoing the binds, and Alfred gazed in quiet wonderment as they then came undone and his long limbs came free, he felt absently along the tender span of his skin, every touch was electric, every motion alive—

Kiku had gently helped him stand up, the both of them naked, he quietly led Alfred then into the bath—

_Was this what Jones-san had wanted to learn? Is this what he had come here to know?_

Attentively, lovingly, he led him in the water, hands gentle as they ran through his hair, through his skin, as they carefully eased the fluid out from inside him, _I was the one to get you messy, so it's my place to clean you, as well_—

After that he made dinner, and let him stay the night, and Alfred lay quietly to sleep, mentally curious and physically calm, more physically satisfied than he'd been in a very long time—

But troubled, confused, unsure what to make of things or what to do, things weren't obvious, really, or clear, _maybe Matthew just wanted_—

_But if Matthew just wanted_—

_Then why with the others?_

_Why not with me? _

_To be continued..._


	34. Chapter 34

Alfred stared out into the kitchen, where Matthew was busy at the countertop, long fingers absently brushing his hair behind one ear as he gazed down, he reminded him of Francis in that moment, and, to some legitimate extent, Francis really had taught Matthew how to cook.

Francis would shudder, though, and stare with arrogant dismay at what Matthew was making now, something Matthew had come up with all on his own some fifty years ago, and which, with neither remorse nor any sign of shame, he openly quite liked.

Alfred liked it, too, but that was hardly saying much, and even if he couldn't quite pronounce the word _poutine_, it reminded him enough of chili cheese fries that he would wolf it down the way he wolfed down nearly everything else.

But he was only partway distracted by the prospect of food that night, for once deep in thought, wondering exactly what was to be done with his baby brother.

Francis lay quietly beneath Matthew that day, blue eyes soft and searching as he silently inspected his face, accommodating, gentle, and even as Matthew, in a moment of broken despair, intended to ravage and take without heed for regard, he was careful, delicate, affectionate all the while, _it was there in his nature, after all—_

_Mon pauvre petit garçon,_

_My poor little boy_,

Francis softly mouthed, hands gentle and slow as they ran in Matthew's hair, he was far past the point of trying to stop him, of telling him _no_, because it was fair, it was only fair, _très bien, alors, mon petit, ce soir je suis à toi__—_

_All right, then, my child, I'm yours tonight—_

Matthew was thin, so thin and sender, Alfred took good care of him, Francis knew that much, because Matthew wasn't scared, he'd been handled with patience and love, Francis could see that much even then, he had wondered about Matthew's brother, _he had wondered if Matthew had known how much Alfred had loved him, as well—_

He didn't really leave you, Francis thought, he always will love you the same—

_What was it that Matthew wanted_, Alfred thought, watching quietly from over the edge of the couch, Matthew absently wiping his hands on his trousers, _what would make him happy?_

_Being with somebody else?_

His evening with Kiku had left him both physically satisfied and terribly perplexed, he'd tried to calm his mind by jogging, by working out, and, when that didn't work, by beating up Ivan—

For the third time, that didn't work out, however, and, for the third time, Alfred got his ass handed to him, to Ivan's vast amusement and unmistakable pleasure, come again tomorrow, he said, we'll do it again.

There had to be a way to beat him, there had to be a way to kick his ass—

Also, he wanted to ask Matthew, he wanted to know how he felt, what he thought, but it pissed him off, it pained him, he didn't want to listen to him say that he wanted to play around, that he wanted to do bad things with other people—

Matthew's soft yellow hair, swaying at the nape of his neck as he leaned his head forth, it smelled nice, what he made, Alfred was reminded of watching Arthur and Francis cooking in his youth, _when will it be ready, I'm hungry_,

And Matthew would sit at his side,_ I'm hungry, too_,

Not because he actually was, but because he wanted to be like his brother—

Matthew had hesitated as he disrobed Francis then, Francis could tell, he wanted to tell him to stop, but Matthew was determined, his fingers were brittle and light at the lacing of his clothes, tremulous, eyes dilated and large, _Francis was beautiful naked—_

And, certainly, this wasn't anything new, Francis had walked around half-naked as far back as Matt could remember, not counting the times he and Arthur had openly amused themselves at every which room in the house—

But Francis had promised, _ce soir, je suis à toi__—_

_Tonight, I'm yours—_

Matthew was so gentle, so light, his hands were tentative, curious, he softly kissed Francis, on his cheek, then his mouth, he was good at this, too—

Francis' large hands, elegant, noble hands, the hands at which England had fallen, at which Scotland was spared, he touched Matthew so gently that Matthew wondered if he'd touched him at all, carefully attentive to hold his strength back, breath hot and humid against Matthew's skin, the light slide of stubble, the soft sway of his hair against Matthew's naked chest, he shivered as his mouth made contact with his skin, _est-ce vraiment Matthew, est-ce vraiment mon doux petit garçon—_

_Is this really Matthew, is this really my sweet little boy—_

Francis really didn't want to, truth be told.

He laid him down very carefully on the bed, very gentle and kind, Matthew's thin arms brittle around his strong shoulders, long eyelashes batting shut, it was no challenge to Francis, making someone feel good, countless women and men had fallen breathless against his broad chest, but it'd been ages since he'd been so careful with anyone—

Matthew's voice came very soft, inaudible almost, murmurs and words and parts of words ghosting ethereal against the delicate folds of Francis' ear, and Francis wondered if he wished he were with Alfred, instead—

_Or maybe, he was curious enough—_

Francis gently kissed his shoulder and his chest, hair swaying against the naked expanse of his abdomen, long fingers working with proficient mastery at the bindings of his trousers, a matter of habit, he had to remind himself to slow down—

Beneath the bare wall of his chest, Matthew's heart was racing with feelings unrestrained, he cried silently, head turned away and vision blurred, Francis' large arms came all around his slender hips as he kissed his flat stomach, _je t'aime_, he whispered, _I love you_,and he also meant to say, _et, mon cher Matthew, Alfred t'aime aussi—_

_and, my dear Matthew, Alfred loves you, too—_

But saying this aloud, reminding him, would it only hurt him more?

Matthew was beautiful naked, too, Francis thought with a curious bout of humility, blue eyes large and quiet as he gazed with wonderment at the younger boy's body, he leaned down carefully and kissed him just at the inguinal ridge, the length of his member, his hip and his inner thigh, and Matthew gasped softly, restraining himself from crying out, Francis was different from Alfred, and Matthew couldn't help thinking of his brother then, but he really had been curious enough—

He stifled himself from crying out when Francis' lips came on him, he did things to him with his mouth, with his hand, things that Alfred never had done, that left him astounded and speechless, eyes wide and voice lodged uselessly at the back of his throat, his long legs came tight all around Francis' back, feet pointed and toes tightly clenched, he hadn't realized how tightly he held on to the other boy until there finally came release and he let go at last, and even then, with the softest, most tremulous breath, he whispered,

_J__e t'en prie, je t'en prie, n'arrête pas là__—_

_Please, please don't stop there—_

And Francis understood, lips wet and red as he leaned in to kiss the slick expanse of Matthew's inner thigh, tenderly, affectionately, his hands were very gentle as he slowly pried the boy's legs away from around his back—

He was reminded of his time with Alfred in the kitchen, how, in a moment of jealousy, he had taunted him deliberately, harshly, determined as he pressed the peach up against his naked skin beneath his clothes—

Had it been merely to have Arthur taste him there—

He wondered somberly how it had been between Alfred and Arthur, and while he felt jealous and thought of Arthur even then, he remembered even despite himself that _Alfred really had been quite generously-endowed._

But he remained very gentle with Matthew nevertheless, slender digits slowly brushing the long hair from his eyes as he leaned forth over him, voice almost inaudible when he whispered then,

_Tu me le diras si tu veux que j'arrête__—_

_You tell me if you want me to stop—_

And Matthew nodded, quiet and trusting, oh, he was frightfully shy, but he never asked Francis to stop—

His fingers interweaved in Francis' when finally he moved inside of him, hair swaying back, Francis buried his face in his neck, arms gentle and large, protective and strong, Matthew's lips were very soft as he leaned forth to kiss his forehead, as far down as he could tilt his head—

"Hey," Alfred said, "When's that gonna be ready, Matt?"

Matthew grinned without turning around, still busy with the food.

"I dunno, like ten minutes?"

Alfred smiled.

He smiled, lighthearted as always as he choked back the tears.

_Those guys are so dead._

_You ever gonna play with France and Russia again?_

_We have to let those ladies know that this is not okay, and that whole night was not okay, and writing you a letter like this is not okay_—

_You're mine, you got it?_

The sunlight streamed in clear through the kitchen window, illuminating Matthew's hair in a golden haze.

_Am I really gonna give you away willingly, baby brother?_

"Let's have a second party," Alfred said, voice wavering at first, but then louder, successfully feigning confidence,

"Without alcohol, and let's make sure _all _the ladies can make it this time."

_There's still stuff they're gonna want to see._

_To be continued… _

--

_A/N: Credit for the lines in French goes to NinjaMatty _


	35. Chapter 35

The second party was to take place at Francis' house, for the simple reason that he among everyone else had likely the most extravagant kitchen, equipped with state-of-the-art culinary devices to prepare food that would compensate for the fact that there really would be no alcohol allowed.

There was a very clear indication that the event was intended quite explicitly for show, largely for the benefit of the ladies, but, secretly, Alfred had planned it because he hoped that, sober, Matthew would ultimately opt out, his curiosity would wane, and the entire episode would be behind them.

Accustomed to planning and leading events, he had worked out the logistics plenty in advance, aided by a small committee of women as to develop it according to their specifications, and a suggestion box were placed for possible ideas as to what they wanted to see.

He'd naïvely hoped that would get the whole thing out of their systems, too, or at least get their minds off his brother and instead on some of the other guys, and he read out the ideas unfazed as he proceeded to write them down, perverse as they were, laughing aloud from time to time,

"You guys want me and England to do _what_? Haha…what's that? Me and _France_?!"

He later met with the other guys, reading aloud the ideas and relaying logistically how the event was to pan out, he may well have been leading another summit meeting the way he went on explaining and directing, obligatorily stuffing his face with food all throughout,

"So that just leaves Lithuania and Poland, and ultimately the ladies wanna see Russia get with France again—"

"Rejected…! I don't wanna have to sit by and watch those two disgusting perverts—"

''Hahaha! On dirait que quelqu'un est jaloux, tu veux te joindre à nous?''

_Hahaha! Sounds like someone's jealous, you wanna join in?_

"I thought I told you not to speak to me in that annoying language of yours…!"

"T…they just wanna watch me and Lovino make out for twenty minutes…?"

Feliciano murmured, and Alfred proceeded to gaze over his shoulder at the document in his hands,

"That's forty-five minutes," he corrected.

"Aiyah! I'll have you guys know there's a girl listening in at the door, aru…!"

Everyone's head turned to the entrance, where, sure enough, a decidedly female hand was holding up a cel phone, flipped open and presumably videotaping the meeting.

"Unacceptable…!"

Ludwig rose from his seat and swiftly made his way to the door, ultimately grabbing at the girl's wrist and prying the phone away,

"No women…!"

There came a sudden cry of astonishment as Hungary reached for her phone, laughing with feigned innocence all the while,

"I…I was trying to find a place with better reception…damn these concrete buildings…"

Bemused, Ludwig held the phone out of her reach as he played back whatever she'd managed to record.

"You'll get this back in just a moment,"

he deadpanned, deleting the movie and quite reluctant to venture forth into the gallery of pictures she had in there, as well.

Roderich crossed his arms at his chest, annoyed.

"If you girls want this event to turn out the way you want, you should at least give us the freedom to properly plan it out."

It was an unmistakable jab meant directly at his ex-wife, and she was ready and more than willing to bash him over the head for it, but, truth be told, she did want them to plan it out properly.

It was with a great deal of regret, then, that she returned to the company of her friends empty-handed, explaining that Ludwig deleted her movie, but that she managed to overhear some of the details.

There were suggestions involving Matthew, of course.

This pained Alfred, and he waited until the meeting was over to bring them up, gently pushing the list in his brother's direction while looking quite irritably away.

"You pick,"

he quietly said, sulking like a child who was denied his dessert, he didn't have the heart to go through them, he didn't have the heart to plan them out, and, really, he didn't have the heart to allow this entire event, and his strength showed at his capacity to hold himself back.

Silently curious, Matthew slowly brushed back the long strands of hair from his face, thin fingers reaching for the sheet as he absently adjusted his glasses on his nose. Alfred waited as he read, observing out the corner of his eye how Matthew's large palm came over his mouth, he was more amused than embarrassed, and this annoyed Alfred, too.

"What's—"

Matthew asked, but Alfred raised his hands in the air to cut him off,

"Ah, ah—I don't wanna know, ask Francis or Arthur or something."

Matthew slowly nodded, and now his cheeks blushed, and Alfred felt bad all of a sudden; Matthew should be able to ask his big brother this sort of thing—

He sighed.

"Okay, okay. Fine. You know what, never mind, go ahead."

Matthew gazed up hopefully through yellow strands of hair.

"No, really, go ahead, it's fine," Alfred prompted.

"What's—" Matthew began, eyes squinting as he pointed slowly at a certain place on the page, "what's _fisting_…?"

"_What?!_"

Alfred grabbed the sheet from Matthew's hands all at once, and his brother snickered and then began laughing aloud, leaning back in his chair in a way that would very likely send him dangerously backward to the floor if he wasn't careful enough—

"What the hell—Matthew, you idiot, it doesn't say _fisting_ on here—"

"I know! Hahahaha…" Matthew snickered, long arms crossed now as he continued to laugh.

"You unbelievable asshole! Are you trying to give me a heart attack…!"

Now Alfred was laughing, too, reaching across the table to smack Matthew on the arm,

"You mean you _knew_ what that was?!"

Still laughing hard, Matthew replied,

"Of course I know what _fisting _is, Al, I'm over two hundred years old…"

Alfred gasped, smiling in astonishment as he pushed Matthew back,

"The hell! What the—! When did—_what—!_"

They were partway wrestling now, Matthew laughing too hard to invest any genuine effort in fighting his brother back, and Alfred really couldn't stay mad that much longer, his attention span was far too short for that—

Outside in the hall, Taiwan and Hungary held their breath as they both lifted their phones through the partly open door to record what unmistakably was twin brothers America and Canada making out.

_To be continued…_


	36. Chapter 36

Francis grinned with quiet amusement as he snapped the back string of Arthur's thong.

"…_hey! Fuck's sake, you twat, that hurts…!_"

Arthur growled angrily as he reached back to rub at his sore behind.

"You shouldn't be wearing that,"

Francis replied coolly,

"The request said _naked_ waiter."

"Th—_that—_"

"He's right, you know,"

Ivan offered helpfully,

"you're not supposed to have anything on under the apron."

"…yeah, who asked you, anyway…!"

Arthur turned irritably to Francis then,

"Any particular reason the girls would know about_ the waiter outfit…?!_"

Francis shrugged with badly feigned innocence,

"Word gets around…"

Over in the kitchen, Alfred and Matthew both were poring over the various dishes Francis had prepared, carefully lifting silver tray covers with childlike curiosity, Matthew in his Review Order uniform, Alfred in a cowboy outfit, both according to request.

While Alfred's attention was genuinely diverted by the food at this time, he was for the most part quite distracted, wondering in his mind how he might avoid having to watch his brother get with whomever the ladies wanted him to get, doing whatever ungodly thing they wanted him to do, he truly wasn't happy inside, he hadn't even read the list for Matthew's part—

He startled when Ivan's large arm came around his shoulder in mockery of good-natured affection, and, really, he'd slid one arm around each of them at that time, grinning ominously as he sang,

"I'll be seeing the two of you later…"

Both brothers actually stiffened—Alfred, too—before he remembered to laugh,

"Yep, you bet—!"

That's right. There was a request to see Ivan with the both of them. There was no way Alfred was going through with it, though—oh, he wouldn't mind having at Ivan, himself, just to try and kick his ass, but having to watch him and Matthew—

If things would properly work themselves out, it wouldn't have to come to that—

"Where did France hide all the desserts,"

Alfred murmured aloud to his brother, large hands lifting one tray cover after the next in search of anything sweet, so far to no avail. Out the corner of his eye, he gazed at Matthew, who seemed exasperatingly okay with things, excited almost, Alfred had hoped that when the evening actually came, his brother would wuss out and forfeit.

He almost wished they could have drinks, he certainly felt like he could use one.

Out in the living room, Francis actually had a stage set up, Alfred wondered if it wasn't just a regular part of his decor, as was the stripping pole, and the love swing—

He could hear the murmur from the other room as the ladies had begun to arrive. Alfred wasn't the only person feeling discontent, out across the kitchen there meandered Ludwig and Roderich, both in drag, the both of them wondering what ill fate had somehow led to their participation in this sort of thing, and what sick mind had specifically requested they do specifically _that_—

Alfred found himself wishing Matthew had felt the same blatant lack of enthusiasm, to no avail.

Francis was having one hell of a time, conspicuously overdressed in a full evening suit and cape, is that how the girls wanted to see him give it to Arthur—

Alfred hadn't even looked into what sorts of things they wanted to watch Matthew do. So they liked his Review Order uniform, Alfred did, too – he liked it when Matthew wore it _for him_, and no one else, and that's all.

After their search for desserts through the kitchen turned useless in all, Alfred gave up, leaning his back against the counter when there came a low scratching sound from somewhere nearby.

Alfred and Matthew grew quiet for a few moments to listen, and, when it came again, Matthew reached with quiet curiosity for the pantry door—and moved about two steps back after the fact, as a naked foot swung directly out at him. Alfred watched with a great deal of amusement before the both of them leaned more closely to inspect—

"Hey, like—close the door, please?"

"…Felix…?"

Matthew quietly asked as a long-fingered hand reached out to slam the pantry door shut. Matthew turned his face slowly to Alfred.

"It's Toris and Felix in there,"

he murmured, "what in the hell…?"

Alfred stared at his brother with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement, before he, too, knelt down to open the door.

"Hey…!"

He called in, "you guys see any cookies in there…?"

"God, I said to close the door…!"

Matthew blinked before settling down at Alfred's side, and he began to pull at Felix's ankles.

"What the hell, Francis has a really big pantry, I guess…"

"What the—hey! _Hey…!_"

Alfred helped Matthew pull the two of them out, and neither of them asked what they were doing in there, because it was obvious enough.

"Can't you guys wait till you're up…"

Matthew sighed, and Alfred glared with quiet irritation at how nonchalant he was being about it all.

"There's no cookies,"

Toris said, nervously straightening his hair, "just some bottles of oil, and seasoning…"

"Can't you see that not everyone's here yet…!"

Arthur muttered angrily at Francis, who, at the corner of the stage, already was helping himself to the string at Arthur's thong.

"Ah, but it's time to start,"

Francis replied with a cool air of intellectual endowment, "we'll run behind schedule if we don't get to work right away—"

"T—to _work_—!"

Francis carefully took the tray from Arthur's hands and placed it on a table nearby before walking him down to center stage.

"H—hey—! Just one moment! I don't think I'm even supposed to—to have a part with you in this program—"

"_Yes you are…!_"

There came enthusiastic cries of approval from the ladies in the audience.

Francis shrugged as in good-natured innocence. _What can you do…?_

"_You're supposed to go on with Russia…!_"

Arthur hissed at Francis while the older boy attempted to turn him around against the pole.

"Yes, yes, I'm going on with Russia after you."

"Y…_you unbelievable s…_"

"Slut? Skank? Yes, yes, now turn around—"

Hands tentatively against the metal edge of the stripping pole, Arthur glared backward to see what exactly Francis was doing.

"N—now, just a minute…!"

"What is it, you're not drunk enough to do this?"

"That—!"

"You know there's no alcohol allowed, we have to do this dry—"

At last, Arthur hung his head in defeat.

"Why can't we drink, for fuck's sake…"

"America's stupid rule,"

Francis crooned, head buried in Arthur's neck and hands quickly undoing the binds of his apron.

"Hey, you guys!"

Ivan sang as again his large hands came on both Matthew and Alfred's shoulders. The brothers startled, quickly turning to face him then.

"You two seen Toris by any chance? I wanted to talk to him…!"

Still within the pantry, Toris and Felix held their breath. Toris actually restraining Felix in place, lest he went out there and "gave that big jerk a piece of his mind."

"N…no! No, I haven't seen him, Alfred, have you?"

"Nope, not me, what's up, Ivan?"

"Oh, just we have a part coming up, and I wanted to be sure he was ready—"

"Ahahahaha…!"

Alfred laughed, batting Ivan's hand away from Matthew's shoulder,

"I'm pretty sure you're up with Francis next…!"

"Oh? Is that so? Am I?"

"Yeah…! Right after he's done with Arthur…!"

"After he's done with Arthur! Oh, is that so…!"

"Hahahahah! Yes, yes, that's so…"

"So I'm getting him second…!"

"Yeah, yep—hey…!"

Ivan was now partway through strangling Alfred, and, as Alfred had the pleasure of finding during the past few weeks, he really was quite good at that—

"…hey! Hahahaha—don't make me kick your ass, Russia…!"

"G—guys—"

Matthew murmured nervously, attempting good-naturedly to unravel the two from one another,

"Maybe—maybe we should all just calm down—"

"Hahahaha…you wanna try and have a go at me again, America?"

"Ah—I think most likely the ladies wanna see us all in one piece and without any bruises—"

"What's that, Canada? You want in on this, too?"

"Hahahahaha! You lay one finger on my baby brother and you're dead meat…!"

"_Silence…!_"

Ludwig's voice roared throughout the large expanse of the kitchen as he stood at the entrance, dressed from head to toe in drag, hands safely in place at his hips.

"If you guys don't cool it down there, you're both banned from the show entirely…!"

Matthew breathed a sigh of relief, long fingers interlacing absently through his brother's, secretly glad he was spared another go at Ivan's hands.

Well aware of the goings-on in the living room, Alfred led Matthew out the kitchen exit to the back yard, instead, and, once outside, without a word he pressed his brother tightly against the side of the house, obscured from view by the ivy and trees nearby, and, mouth hard against the tremulous skin at his neck, he wanted, he wanted so much to whisper,

_Don't go through with it, Matty, let's ditch this thing, I'm sorry I ever put it together, let's just run on out, we could make it over the fence if we went for it now, who cares about all this crap, I only want you, Matt, I only want you—_

But, silent and defeated, he hung his head gently against him instead, long arms gathering him tightly against himself, _this, tonight, this was what his brother wanted, after all_.

_To be continued…_


	37. Chapter 37

"W—what are you doing—this is embarrassing—"

Cheeks bright red, Arthur gazed over his shoulder at Francis carefully disrobing him with quiet proficiency.

"Ah, it's hard for you sober, isn't it,"

Francis laughed, long fingers delicate as they pulled the apron strings away from around Arthur's narrow waist.

"Easy for you to say, you—you're completely dressed—"

He considered how ridiculous his words were, considering how willingly Francis would otherwise disrobe before others; tonight's suit was specifically by request.

"Don't you worry, Russia will strip me soon enough,"

He crooned at Arthur's ear,

"_if you want, you can stick around to watch—_"

His large hands ran with elegant reserve over the skin at Arhtur's thigh, digits carefully interlacing at the elastic of his thong.

"_Would you like that?_"

He whispered,

"_You wanna watch him give it to me?_"

Arthur was going to reply, but shuddered instead when he felt Francis' hand come slowly around his member. There emanated wet, profane sounds from beneath, and Arthur blushed to realize he was that aroused already—

"_I—_"

"_You do, don't you. England, you really are a pervert._"

"H…hey! You're one to talk—!"

But he was breathless, heart racing fast against the bare wall of his chest as behind him Francis already was taking him over, the pressed fabric of his blazer sliding against his naked back.

"Ah, but I already know you're a pervert, this is nothing new—"

"Y—you—"

He kissed the crook of Arthur's neck, openly, so the ladies could get a good view, before, slowly lowering himself, he pulled down at the boy's underwear, only down to his thighs before carefully placing one gloved hand at the nape of his neck and urging him forth a bit.

"_Bend over for Big Brother_,"

He whispered, tongue trailing absently at his lip with quiet appreciation as he proceeded lower along his body, _there's a good boy—_

"N—now you listen to me, you wine bastard…! _You can't talk to me that w—_"

Arthur gasped with mute astonishment as he felt Francis' teeth come down gently, teasingly against his behind.

"Please, England, don't act so coy,"

Francis' voice came low, mocking, even as he continued to have at him then,

"I know you do this to yourself—"

His lips moved wetly, against the soft skin of his behind, long fingers teasing, cruel in their ministrations as they danced just at the small opening beneath, _I know you touch yourself here—_

"_Nnn—!_"

Arthur blushed, too aroused and desperate for modesty now, and, long arms wrapped around the metal pole, he hissed at Francis with frustration,

"Damn you, curse you France, stop messing around—"

"What's that?"

Francis asked with all the innocence in the world, "is there something you'd rather have me do?"

He wet his fingers, carefully inspecting the hot skin before him as he touched him there again, digits slick as they prodded ever so lightly—

Arthur's words were a string of indecipherable expletives now, teeth clenched and eyes closed in frustration as he gripped the pole, _damn you, you wine bastard, damn you to hell—_

"Why, England, I can't understand a thing? Maybe if you asked more clearly, I…"

Head still buried at the crook of Matthew's neck, Alfred softly laughed.

"You hear that? It's just like old times…"

Matthew grinned, hands moving protectively to his brother's ears and cupping them.

"Oh, no…" he mouthed with gentle recollection, "France and England are at it again…"

Both brothers laughed knowingly.

Alfred's large hands came slowly over Matthew's on his ears, carefully pulling them off. He gazed at Matthew, and Matthew gazed back, both of them knowing, it remained unspoken in the small space between them,

_It's kinda hot, isn't it._

"_I wanna do you right here_,"

Alfred whispered, words echoing humid just at Matthew's ear, _right now, let's do it—_

Matthew wanted it, too.

Alfred's warm hand slid along the red fabric of Matthew's blazer, down to his belt, to his trousers from there, dangerously close—

_What if someone sees us_,

Matthew thought to say, and then realized how ridiculous the notion was, considering they all were to perform deliberately before an audience that night—

Considering that was what he, specifically, had wanted—

"Y—you just like me in this suit—"

"I love you in that suit—"

_I love you—_

In the living room, up on the stage, Arthur could barely maintain his balance as he leaned against the hard metal pole.

"_England, you're very wet, you dirty boy—_"

Arthur blushed bright crimson; it all were true. He really was very wet, and very aroused, mercilessly sober and aware of it all.

Francis was carefully licking him from behind, attentively, large hands firm and gentle at his thighs, wet and glistening, the fluid gradually streaming down—

"_Oh, I can see you want it pretty bad—_"

He said, as though thoughtfully observing a troublesome phenomenon, his French accent exasperatingly pronounced, Arthur wanted so much to tell him to shut up and get to it, but he couldn't find his voice—

Every touch was electric, every menacing nuance alive—

"Vas-y, Francis, tu ne vois pas à quel point il en a envie—"

_Go on, Francis, can't you see how badly he wants it—_

It was Belgium's voice, calling out empathically over the expanse of the room.

"You hear that?"

Francis asked, head tilted upward, lips and chin still glistening wet,

"The ladies feel for you, England, they really do—"

"_Y…you—_"

Ever comfortable before an audience, Francis turned to the ladies and, gently cradling Arthur's thigh from behind, he asked,

"You'd like to see me give it to Arthur?"

The response, of course, was affirmative then. Francis slowly tilted his head to bite at the boy's thigh, and Arthur gasped, he would never ask for it, himself, he was far, far too proud—

There came the low clinking of metal as Francis rose slowly to his feet, long fingers working at the clasp of his belt as, formal suit still on, he merely reached in for his member, still holding his breath as to withhold from succumbing to his own ministrations—

He was hard, and very wet, as well, the women leaned forth in their chairs as to see—

Truth be told, he wanted badly to have at Arthur, as well, lapping at him for so long had gotten him quite frustrated and aroused, he held himself back to torment him all the more, and now touching him at last, the hot, wet feel of his thighs against the tip of his member—

"_We can't see, we can't see—!_"

It was Taiwan, and, ever the gentleman, Francis rearranged himself in such a way that they could get a better view,

"Is this better?"

He asked, and it was, so, very slowly, one hand on Arthur's thigh, he guided himself luxuriantly inward, biting hard at his lip as he felt it slide inside, smoothly, effortlessly almost,

_Comme un couteau à travers du beurre—_

_Like a knife through butter—_

Arthur's long fingers tightened on the pole, stray wisps at his bangs hanging down, eyes closed, defeated, _oh, he was so hard—_

"Is that good?"

Francis whispered, and it was, Arthur would never admit it aloud, if he could find his voice, he'd probably curse him and tell him how awful he was—he could barely even lift his eyes enough to glare back, or seethe irritably at the audience, _what are you looking at_, he merely held on to the pole for dear life, Francis' lips gentle and taunting at his neck, his long fingers prying slowly at his mouth—

"Open,"

He whispered, and Arthur did, the slender digits moving slowly in, he sucked on them absently, blushing at the wet, obscene sounds, _oh_, Francis laughed, _don't you blush like that, England, you pervert, don't you act so shy—_

Feliciano and Lovino waded through the tables in the audience, carrying trays with drinks and food, both scantily clad and handcuffed together, they flirted with the ladies all the while, even though this was strictly against the rules, but, certainly, the women didn't mind—

They both stopped in place, however, trays in hands, at the sound of Arthur's soft cries against the palm of Francis' hand. Hopelessly sober, he'd gone past the point of shame and succumbed merely to the encompassing sensation of the other boy moving wetly within him, he'd lost all sense of time, all sense of pride or vengeance or rage, it was good, he hated so much to admit, it really was so good—

_To be continued… _

_--  
_

_A/N: credit for lines in French goes to sakurazukalori._


	38. Chapter 38

All eyes were on Francis and Arthur at this moment of shameless depravity, so that no one noticed that Ivan had paced absently onto the stage. He gazed at the two with leisurely amusement, eyebrows slightly raised and scarf still falling idly from around his neck. From his hand there dangled quite distinctly a bottle of vodka, half empty, and he slowly raised it to his mouth as he continued to watch.

Arthur noticed him, actually, but, far beyond the point of speech or any comprehension at all, he merely stared, breath coming hot and hands still gripping at the metal pole. Ivan walked toward them, and the ladies began to notice, gasping quietly, one by one, he walked to Arthur without a word and slowly ran one finger against the wet tip of his member beneath.

Arthur's cry was indistinguishable from among the chorus of whines and moans he'd been emitting already, and he watched with eyes glazed as Ivan brought his finger slowly to Francis' mouth.

Surprised, Francis gasped, not having expected Ivan there just yet. But the digit pressed in, and he licked at it even as his eyes questioned the other boy.

"So I am getting you second after all,"

Ivan said with the most unsettling, innocent smile.

"Ah—well—"

Francis laughed nervously, slowing down a bit, to Arthur's dissatisfaction.

Outside in the back yard, Alfred had Matthew breathless against the side of the house. Cowboy hat hanging at the back of his shirt, long fingers playing idly at the front of Matthew's trousers, to hell with this whole event, _baby brother, I just want you—_

He didn't say it aloud. He wanted Matthew to say it, _to hell with it all, I only want you, big brother—_

But Matthew didn't. He didn't resist, either, he seemed rather into it, in fact, but it bothered Al a great deal that he expressed no intention to forego the event; Matthew could be such a little punk sometimes…

Whatever happened to that time in the bath, when he'd distinctly told him he won't play with others again, when he'd distinctly promised to Alfred, _just you_, why was he so chill with all this, what the hell was going on…?

Alfred kissed him hard, possessively, he held him very tightly to himself, but it didn't matter how tightly he held him, or what he forced him to promise, at the end of the day, if his baby brother wanted out, there was nothing he could do. And he'd secretly hoped that this event would have Matthew ultimately declining, realizing to whom he really belonged, _I don't really want any of that, I only ever wanted you, Al—_

—except he didn't.

Matthew was hardly traumatized by the prospect of playing to the crowd, he was completely chill, it was irritating, it was annoying as hell—

And just when Alfred thought he'd really had enough, then things got even worse—

"Ah, I'm sorry, Al, we really should stop, or we won't last for later—"

Still breathing hard with arousal, Alfred stared back with silent disbelief. _We won't last for later…?!_ Are you fucking kidding me…?!

_That's what you care about? _Lasting for a bunch of gawking, rabid girls—

But there, before him, Matthew carefully disentangled his long limbs from in-between his own, cheeks still flushed as he smoothed back his hair and put his hat back in place, presumably to return back in the house—

Leaving Alfred frustrated and astounded, staring after him in shock, _you blew me off for—for some stupid performance—_

Of course, the performance was the main event that night, after all. After all, Alfred had planned the event out, himself.

"Yeah,"

He said when he found his voice at last, "yeah, that's right, you go ahead."

Ivan walked slowly around Francis and Arthur, gazing at them with quiet introspection; it was unsettling, Arthur would have glared back if he could manage to find that much self control, and Francis winked, _that's right, you'll get me next_, though _next_ never quite sat right with Ivan.

"So!" Ivan grinned casually, "whose idea was it to have you wear this much stuff?"

Francis was partway through mentally composing a reply when there came a distinctive tug at his blazer. He let go of Arthur in a moment of surprise when Ivan pulled the sleeves away from his arms, and then removed the coat altogether.

"Don't the ladies wanna see you naked? Last time I screwed you, your body looked pretty nice—"

"They—" Francis grinned, words cut short when Ivan pulled him back by the hair, "—they wanna see you take them off me, of course—"

"Ah…!" there came the reply, "Of course…!"

Arthur fell forth a bit from the impact, breathing hard and gripping the pole for support.

"Hey, Russia…! What are you doing up here…! And—and you shouldn't be drinking, didn't you listen when America said—"

From behind Francis' shoulder, Ivan reached in with one large hand to tilt Arthur's chin back a bit, in his direction. He moved in very close and spoke with unsettling softness against his temple,

"_You can stay or you can leave, but I'm having my turn now_."

"I think he should stay,"

Francis laughed softly, and Arthur stiffened, suddenly at full awareness as he attempted to turn around,

"Hey, hey…! I won't be sat here and made to deal with the two of you together! Like how you perverts handled Canada—"

Francis held him in place, long arms enveloping around his front, "Is someone jealous again?" he crooned, teeth closing slowly at the delicate shell of his ear, "really, England, at your age…"

"L—_like you act your age...!_"

Francis held his arms out again as Ivan proceeded to unbutton his shirt, and Arthur made a failing attempt to unravel himself and gracefully take his leave.

"_I don't think the ladies requested you and me and Russia together…!_" he hissed at Francis, who promptly held him in place.

"I don't think the ladies are opposed," Francis replied, and the ladies expressed in fact that it really was quite all right.

"_I'm opposed! I don't even wanna be up here with you…! I—_"

"_Shh_…" Francis crooned, one hand coming slowly over Arthur's mouth, "if you calm down, I'll give you something nice—"

"Are you having a laugh! I don't want anything from you! I—"

Ivan was rather enjoying this lively exchange, enough that he allowed Francis the freedom to get out of his shoes and turn to face him, Arthur still in his arms and still quite unyielding.

"You're just moody because I pulled out," Francis murmured at Arthur's ear, and, as in heartfelt compassion, he slowly ran the palm of his hand along the small of his back, down to the curve of his behind and to the wet entrance from there.

"_That better?_"

he crooned as his fingers slowly slid inside, and Arthur gasped, stiffening all at once.

"_It is, isn't it_," Francis went on to say, carefully stroking him from within.

"_G—go to hell—_"

Arthur's words were confirmation enough, so, without pulling out, Francis drew him closer toward Ivan then.

"Can we share?"

He asked the taller boy, smiling as he gazed up, and Ivan was all smiles and warm regard as his large hand came down on the top of Francis' head, forcing him down to his knees. The boy's yellow hair swung awkwardly forth, disheveled, he nearly lost his hold on Arthur as he stumbled down, and then Arthur stumbled down with him, as well.

"Hey—! Just what do you think you're—"

"Help me out, England,"

Francis winked, long hair messily covering his face in a tangle of golden bundles, "I've only got one free hand." He continued gently to stroke Arthur inside, so whatever expletive the other boy had prepared remained uselessly frozen at his lips, instead.

"You—_using just one hand had never stopped you before_—"

"Help me anyway,"

Came the reply, Francis gazing up at Ivan as he reached not with his free hand, but with his teeth, in order to undo his belt. Arthur watched with mute astonishment, partway subdued by Francis' ministrations and partly in awe of the effortless talent with which he worked at the latch and the metal clasp.

"You know it looks good," Francis crooned around the buckle, "you know you also wanna—"

"I—I don't—"

He continued watching for several moments more before, very slowly, he leaned in as well, long fingers careful around the zipper before pulling it down.

Underneath, the fabric was warm, tight, both he and Francis stared with undeniable anticipation, "_this is what I'm getting_," Francis softly whispered, and there in Arthur's eyes there was for the first time the very real flash of envy, _why you, anyway?_

Ivan watched patiently, allowing them to take their time in undoing his trousers, in sliding their long fingers under his briefs, amused by their impatience and their appetite—

The women in the audience leaned forth when at last his briefs came down, there came the soft mechanical snap of phone cameras, and quiet whispers of fascination.

Arthur and Francis both stared for several moments before they both leaned in, hands coming on the hard length, fingers intertwining, fighting for dominance—

"_Move,_" Francis hissed, "wait your turn—"

"This was your idea…! Don't be a twat about this now…!"

"Huhu! Feisty, are we!"

Before this could go any further, Ivan's hands came down on both of their heads, forcibly pressing them against him.

"Play nice, or he's out,"

He said with a lighthearted grin.

For several moments, both boys cringed, eyes tightly closed from the impact. Ivan's hand still in his hair, Arthur parted his lips, breath coming humid against the hard member. He couldn't help himself; he wanted badly to have him, for whatever reason—

Very slowly, he reached forth with his tongue, expiration hot as he lapped at the firm surface. Then his hands tightened on the member, he lapped gradually along the surface from the base up, hungrily—

Francis quietly watched, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end, _it looked so good—_

His fingers tightened on Arthur's he moved in, as well, and began to lap at the member from the opposite side, over the wet tip, determined, possessive, as to steal him from Arthur again—

Over in the kitchen, Alfred had emptied half the contents from the fridge, half the boxes in the cabinet and also some containers from the shelves above the stove—

At last he'd come across some sweets, some dark sauce made from fruit, ingredients like syrup and sprinkles, and, finally, cake—

Uncharacteristically annoyed, he was in no mood to perform that night. He leaned back against the fridge with an entire box of desserts and began to eat them slowly, trying to pretend as best he could that he didn't hear the talk emanating from the living room nearby.

_To be continued…_


	39. Chapter 39

Ivan's light hair fell over his brow like a curtain of silk, deceptively soft, his words, too, were eerily gentle, Francis turned his head to kiss the large palm of his hand as it swept past his mandible, affectionate almost, paternal—

You'd think this was for their personal welfare, what he let them do, they almost thought so, as well, eager, competitive, possessive, fighting gently with one another, their hands grasping at his thighs unawares, _move it, get lost, it's my turn, it's mine—_

The fluid ran clear out the corner of Francis' mouth, and Arthur lapped at it slowly, impatiently, "_Dirty boy_," Francis crooned around the tip of the member at his lips, his fingers taunting, mischievous just at the soft curve of Arthur's behind, he wanted Arthur to ask him to slide them in again, he wanted to hear him, just so he could chastise him for that, too.

Ivan's hand wandered with quiet curiosity along the stubble at Francis' cheek, and then just at Arthur's jaw, the shell of his ear, his lower lip—

He grinned down at him with unsettling serenity as the large digits tugged just the slightest bit at his mouth, _you wanna taste it again, don't you, Francis isn't being fair—_

"Get me a beer,"

Elizabeta pulled on Feliciano's wrist, hard enough almost to make him tip his entire tray, and he stumbled gracelessly in an attempt to balance it.

"Hey, watch it, you're—"

Lovino grumbled in irritation, handcuffed to his brother as he were, and forced nearly off balance as a consequence.

"_Shh…!_"

She silenced them both with a quick sway of the hand, eyes transfixed on the stage all the while.

Ivan held his finger out to Arthur expectantly, and Arthur reached after it with stifled desperation, hand tightening at the skin of his thigh as he took the digit in his mouth,

"_Is that good for you_?"

Ivan asked, and it was, but not quite as good as what Francis was having—

Arthur watched Francis out the corner of his eye, his hair softly swaying, lips glistening red, Ivan pressed deep in against him, deliberately, as far as it would go, _Francis, you whore, you can take it—_

And Francis could, he enjoyed it very much, arrogant almost as he glanced triumphantly at Arthur, _so you think you could do this just as well?_

Slowly, luxuriantly, Ivan proceeded to pull out, the member emerging slick and brilliant from in-between Francis' lips, glittering wet in the lamplight of the ceiling fixture, and before it were even completely out, Arthur reached after it with impatient greed, lapping at the wet surface, taking it possessively into his mouth—

"_That doesn't matter_,"

Francis whispered, tongue running absently just at his lip,

"He's gonna fuck me first."

Before Arthur could respond, Francis slid his fingers just at his entrance, teasingly, deliberately, as to make a point of what Arthur won't be getting—

"Who says I'm fucking you at all?"

Ivan asked with the most innocent smile, and, ever the gentleman, Francis grinned in response, entirely unaffected as he continued to stroke the other boy from beneath,

"I do believe the ladies expressed a great deal of interest in seeing you fuck me."

"Oh, is that so?"

"_Damn straight…!_" from the audience, and "_That's right!_" and "_Go Russia, give it to him…!_"

Francis tilted his head back just enough that the girls could see him wink.

"Oh, I see…!" Ivan laughed with mockery of innocent understanding, "so this is what they want…"

Francis nodded, grinning in reply, when Ivan then went on to say,

"…and so they don't want to see me give it to England, too?"

Again there came cries of approval, Arthur's cheeks burning red as the member slid out from within his mouth.

"H—hey…!"

He stammered, "I never said—"

His words were cut short when the member then moved in again, and Francis laughed,

"He's a pervert, Russia, he thinks whining this way makes him any less of a slut—"

Arthur tried to protest, but he couldn't very well put up a fight the way Ivan held his head in place, moving in deliberately, mercilessly, till the member slid wet at the back of his throat—

_He did like it_, _it really was nice_, Arthur's eyes fluttered shut, he'd envied Francis since he saw him do this to Ivan moments before, he'd never admit it aloud—

Then, all at once, the member slid out, glittering wet with fluid as both Arthur and Francis reached after it then.

"Not now—"

Came Ivan's voice, and, his hands at both their heads, he pulled them back by the hair, forcibly—

He knelt down toward them, one long digit curiously raising Francis chin, and his eyes darted across the boy's face with quiet introspection before he leaned in slowly to lap at the fluid just at his lip.

"You're still far overdressed, isn't that right?"

Arthur, who had been watching with mild amusement, was taken entirely off guard when Ivan reached for him then, large hands grasping just under the thighs. He actually cried out, long limbs flailing as Ivan lifted him with one solid swoop, holding him upside-down with his legs bent just over his shoulders, the fabric of his clothes pressed against his naked body from behind.

"_What in the bloody hell—!_"

Arthur cried out as he struggled and writhed, to Ivan's vast amusement,

"Put me down! What the hell is the matter with you, _put me down…!_"

Now also on his feet, Francis grinned as he gazed down at Arthur's face, greatly entertained, and Arthur grasped angrily at him when then he stepped closer—

"Go on,"

Ivan grinned as he said, ignoring Arthur's struggles entirely, and they both gazed down at Arthur's member, still hard from before—

"Wh—_what in the hell are you two doing—_"

Arthur stammered with suspicion, his words dying suddenly at his lips as he felt Francis' mouth—

"_Nnn—! H…hey! S—stop—_"

His arms came around Francis' waist all at once, nails digging deep at the small of his back,

"_Get your bloody mouth off me and—and put me d—down—_"

"Now, England," Ivan sang with uninterrupted composure, "be a good boy and get France out of his clothes—"

"Bollocks, are you mad? I said, put me down—!"

"Do you think he needs some discipline?"

Francis crooned gently, grinning just over the tip of Arthur's member as he leaned forth to kiss Ivan then.

"_I'll give you discipline, you wine bastard id—ah!!_"

"England, I thought I told you to get him out of his clothes?"

"_Put me down…_"

But his protests were now growing weaker, he slowly gave in, succumbing despite himself to the pleasant ministrations from above until his words gave way to incoherent murmurs and slurs, stifled at the narrow bend of Francis' side—

Clumsily, shakily, the slender digits of his hands worked at doing away with Francis' trousers, tugging weakly at the cloth, blindly, vaguely aware of the metal clink of his belt as his pants fell to the floor,

"_There_," Ivan's voice came from somewhere above, "_was that really so hard—_"

"_G…go to hell—_"

came the weakened reply, and, still lapping at him, Francis crooned,

"Shall we punish him?"

"I'm about to punish you,"

Ivan smiled good-naturedly, and it certainly sounded to Francis like something quite nice.

Arthur's thighs stiffened tightly, narrowing all at once around Ivan's shoulders, and Ivan watched with uninterrupted fascination as Francis had at him then, eyes closed, hair swinging, hand glistening slick as he stroked Arthur all the while,

"_Like the little whore you are_,"

Ivan crooned as he whispered to him, _go on, France, get him off—_

Arthur grasped hard at Francis' naked hips from beneath, his own lips sucking gently at his member, weakly, defeated, tasting himself from before, his voice came stifled when he came, fingers digging mercilessly into the flesh of Francis' back, the fluid streaming hot along his own thighs, his pelvis and his abdomen, Francis and Ivan lapped at it with strange desperation, kissing each other, cleaning him off—

Alfred had given up on performing altogether. Propped against the side of the fridge, he sat on the floor with a large tub of ice cream in his lap, digging at it sulkily with a spoon.

This was stupid, this whole event was stupid, and Matthew was especially stupid, and also France was stupid for hiding all the various desserts he'd made.

Alfred found them, of course, over time, he'd left nothing spared, he'd been through every container and every dish and every confectionary box, they lay in absolute disarray all over the floor and the table and counter, and Alfred didn't really care, where was Matthew, anyway, was he already on stage, Alfred didn't really wanna know—

"_Was tust du denn hier_,"

_What are you doing here_,

Vash glared quietly as Roderich opened the front door, and his hands rose as of their own accord to cover his sister's eyes; Roderich was dressed like a woman, somehow.

"Du bist spät,"

_You're late_,

There came the reply,

"Du hast Glück, dass du noch nicht dran bist."

_Lucky for you, you're not up on stage yet._

Flushing bright crimson, Vash gritted his teeth, now also wanting to cover Liechtenstein's ears.

"I...ich were nicht auf diese Bühne gehen...!"

_I…I'm not going up on that stage…!_

"Ist das so. Witzigerweise ist das nicht, was hier im Programm steht."

_Is that so. Funny, that's not what the program here says._

"G—gib mir das...!"

_G—give me that…!_

Liechtenstein gazed with one curious eye as Vash removed one hand from her face to examine the sheet.

Sure enough, there he was on the program, just after Feliciano and Lovino.

"Auf keinen Fall! Und... und ich will nicht, dass meine Schwester das sieht. Sie ist _unschuldig_ und außerdem steht sie nicht auf so etwas...!"

_There's no way! And…and I don't want my sister seeing this! She's innocent, she's not into this sort of thing…!_

"Was geht hier vor?"

_What's going on here?_

Ludwig's voice interrupted them as he joined at Roderich's side; he was dressed in women's clothes, as well, and Vash found himself secretly terrified lest a similar fate also awaited him.

"Schweiz, du bist spät dran. Willkommen, Liechtenstein."

_Switzerland, you're late. Welcome, Liechtenstein._

_To be continued…_

--

_A/N: Credit for the lines in German goes to LumCheng - thank you!  
_


	40. Chapter 40

"_Right here_,"

Ivan motioned for Francis to move closer, and, as to demonstrate what he wanted him to do, he leaned farther against Arthur's thighs and slowly ran his tongue against the wet surface, from his spent member farther to his perineum and his thighs, and Francis followed suit, licking his lips and grinning at the prospect of tormenting Arthur's helpless form, but, even as he obediently followed suit, he murmured to Ivan in response,

"I hope you don't think I'm getting him ready for you, after this you're fucking _me_."

"Oh, I am having you get him ready for me,"

Ivan replied with the sweetest grin, unfazed as he waited expectantly for Francis to comply nonetheless.

Francis frowned, gazing with quiet annoyance.

"Ha-_ha…!_" came suddenly Arthur's voice from below, "serves you right, you per—_hey!_"

He was cut short by a quick slap to the thigh on Francis' part,

"Watch it, England…! You're in no position to be singing taunts…!"

But despite it all, Arthur continued laughing, enjoying immensely the way Ivan had put the other boy in his place.

"You won't even be able to handle Russia," Francis sneered, "you have no idea what you're in for."

"I thought I asked you to get him ready for me?"

Ivan said with unsettling serenity, and Francis practically sulked as he bent forth to comply, waves of yellow hair falling over Arthur's naked hips.

"What about me," he murmured like a hurt child, "everyone said they wanna watch you give it to _me_."

"Is that what everyone said?"

For once, Francis found himself wishing that Alfred had somehow managed to kick Ivan's ass the times he had tried. Too bad he was a stupid American, each time Ivan beat him to a pulp, Alfred would cheerfully come back for more, grinning with good-natured threats about how presumably the hero was gonna triumph that time.

It was vastly amusing to Francis, who was no match for Alfred, himself, the times he'd come to kick _his_ ass, presumably for what he and Ivan had "done to Matthew."

Funny, that.

All the ladies wanted to see more or less everyone "do things to Matthew" tonight, and Alfred had somehow okayed all of that.

_It can't be helped_, Francis sighed as he proceeded to lap at Arthur's thighs the way Ivan wanted, he'd be lying if somehow he pretended he didn't like that, as well. Ivan grinned, _I knew eventually you'd come around_, if he could, he'd pet Francis condescendingly on the head.

Arthur, who was delirious and overly-sensitive with aftershock, clung on to Francis' narrow hips unawares, disheveled spikes of his hair hanging down beneath him as he struggled weakly in response to their ministrations.

Some minutes later, Ivan had asked Francis to lean forth and grab Arthur under his arms, holding him right-side-up again as Ivan proceeded to lower his legs to his own hips. Francis complied, gazing with unquestionable dissatisfaction as he watched the other boy proceed to have at Arthur instead of him.

"_You bastard_,"

He murmured, addressing them both, and he found himself secretly hoping that England would find he's in over his head.

The blood slowly returning to the rest of his body, Arthur gazed with quiet curiosity as Ivan held his thighs apart, the large head of his member was hot, glistening, it felt nice at the sensitive skin just outside his entrance, "_go on_," he heard himself murmur with stifled impatience, he'd spent so much time on his own, playing with himself, perversely, deliberately using items too large to possibly ever fit—

But this was far nicer than anything else that he'd tried, just watching Ivan move against him from the outside like that, slowly, he thought he would reach forth and put it in, himself, if he weren't restrained—

Ivan smiled, taking his time,

"_You're a little pervert just like Francis, aren't you_," he softly laughed, and Arthur stiffened, suddenly offended,

"H..hey! Don't go comparing me with that tosser—"

"Hey, England! You want me to drop you?"

"I want you to get lost…!"

"No way in hell, if anyone's getting lost, it's you, I'm not leaving till I get some action from Ivan—"

"Is that so?"

Ivan asked, quite enjoying their argument and making no promises at all to follow through on Francis' expectations. Before either of them could respond, he moved forth then with his hips, wet sounds emanating from below as he slowly pressed the head in.

"Ah—_ahhn—_"

Arthur gasped, his naked abdomen arching in response, long legs stiffening behind Ivan's thighs—

His eyes closed, lips moving agape as he fought for composure, resisting the urge to allow the member farther in. It was good, _oh, fuck, it was so good—_

He was tremendously content, smug to have Francis watch this, _in your face, wanker_, he was gonna make it look even better than it was.

It worked, too, Francis was really quite annoyed, he really considered dropping Arthur, he didn't really care if that pissed Ivan off, but he kept a tight rein on his temper and watched, defeated—truth be told, it really was a thing to watch.

"Wo ist Amerika,"

_Where's America_

Vash grumbled irritably, the palms of his hands still plastered to his sister's eyes,

"Ich muss mit ihm über dieses Event reden. Ich werde da auf keinen Fall mitmachen!"

_I need to talk to him about this event. There's no way I'm following through!_

"Du hättest ihn die ganze letzte Woche darauf ansprechen können, und zwischen den Meetings, man sagt Dinge nicht in letzter Minute ab,"

_You had all last week to talk to him about this, and during the meetings, you don't call things off at the last minute_

Roderich replied with quiet irritation as he followed Vash on his journey down the hall. The boy deliberately avoided the living room as he proceeded through the corridor farther into the house,

"Dieses Event hätte von Anfang an gar nicht stattfinden sollen, erst diese—diese Party, und jetzt das—"

_This event shouldn't have taken place to begin with, first that—that party, and now this—_

"Als ich Amerika zuletzt gesehen habe, hat er_—_oh, da ist er_—_"

_Last I saw America, he—oh, there he is—_

Roderich said on spotting Matthew in the nearby den. He was standing before a large mirror, carefully straightening his blazer, like a child nervous on the first day of school.

"America…!"

Vash exclaimed, hands still on Liechtenstein's eyes, and he flushed suddenly when Matthew turned around, all at once realizing his mistake.

Matthew, who remembered nothing about their night at the party, merely grinned shyly in response,

"I'm Canada, actually…"

Even dressed explicitly in his Review Order uniform, he was still mistaken for his brother, it seemed…

"C…Canada—"

Vash stammered, surprised and confused by how calm the other boy seemed about this. He searched Matthew's face for signs of embarrassment, resentment—but there was nothing—

Matthew merely smiled back, good-naturedly, like nothing had happened at all—

"Would you know where America is?"

Roderich asked, and Matthew's eyes rose up and to the right as he thought about this.

"We were in the back yard not too long ago, maybe he's still in the kitchen—"

He motioned for them to follow as he left the den and headed down the hallway, navigating through France's large home with casual familiarity.

This was all very unsettling to Vash, infuriating, he was vastly annoyed with everything that had happened, he still hadn't recovered from the shame of being made to perform at the last event, from being so far subjugated, all while his little sister watched—

How many people knew about that? Just how far had the news even spread? Did Alfred know? Did Roderich?

Pacing down the hall that night, he hated having to deal with Roderich face-to-face again, awkwardly, irritably, it brought back old memories and feelings so carefully restrained, Vash wouldn't be made to play at the same game twice, he wasn't going to make a spectacle of himself that night, _not in front of Roderich, not again, like that—_

He very nearly bumped directly into Matthew's back when the taller boy stopped short at the kitchen entrance.

"What in the—_Alfred…?_"

Matthew murmured, almost a whisper, as his eyes fell slowly over the horrible mess in the room. Alfred gazed up from his third or fourth container of ice cream, covered with stains and syrup and crumbs, cross-legged and unimpressed as he leaned against the back of the fridge.

"Alfred, what in the hell….?"

Matthew asked as he slowly paced inside, wading over the bins and containers upturned on the floor.

"Are you crazy? What are you doing?"

"…hello…!"

There came the reply, Alfred grinning as he waved to Matthew and the others who have followed in his wake. He made no effort to get up and continued merely to shovel ice cream messily into his mouth, until Matthew knelt at his side and then grabbed the spoon out of his hand, annoyed.

"What the hell, Alfred, have you lost your mind? Have you forgotten you're getting up on stage in like twenty minutes—"

"Give me that," Alfred grumbled as he reached for the spoon, "I'm not going up on that stage."

"Not all messy like that, you're not! For the love of God, Alfred, are you drunk?"

Now Alfred glared quite irritably at his brother, finally taking the spoon from his hand.

"No, Matthew, I'm not _drunk_. _Not like you were at that party_."

Whatever Matthew was going to say next remained uselessly lodged at the back of his throat as he stared back at Alfred, mouth frozen where once he had a long-forgotten reprimand prepared.

He quietly blushed, blue eyes darting across Alfred's face with a mixture of embarrassment and surprise before slowly he lowered his gaze.

Roderich and Vash watched from the doorway, slowly scanning the disheveled mess in the room, and the brothers arguing by the fridge nearby.

"Ah—"

Roderich started, but his voice subtly trailed as Alfred continued,

"Well, but you're all sober now, and apparently that makes no difference. So go for it, bro."

"Alfred, what in the hell is the matter with you? You were the one who said _no alcohol_."

"Yeah, exactly, and you're just as big of a whore, regardless…!"

Alfred turned angrily toward Matthew, one finger accusingly pointing, chocolate syrup dripping onto his shirt.

Matthew stared with mute astonishment, eyes big and glittering with a thin film of tears.

"N—now that's just not fair…! This whole event was _your_ idea…!"

"Yeah, what was I supposed to do, sit by and watch you get with those women behind my back—"

"_Get with those women behind your back…?!_ Alfred—"

"No, man, fuck you," Alfred cut him off, fingers running messily through his hair as he gazed back down at his ice cream, "I don't even know how many guys you got with that night, you don't even know, _you don't even remember whom you topped, that was supposed to be me—_"

"_Mon bien-aimé, mon __héros__._

_Au moins tu admet que j'ai toujours sauver ton petit cul dans la bataille._ "

Four pairs of eyes turned slowly in the direction of the sound, Liechtenstein's small voice emanating softly from the doorway.

Very gently, she reached upward to remove her brother's hands from her eyes.

"You all—you all need to stop fighting—"

She quietly said.

Vash gazed forth in surprise, astonished as his little sister slowly paced toward Matthew and Alfred. Her green eyes inspected them slowly, and then she turned her head toward Roderich and Vash.

"_Mon bien-aimé_, _mon héros_, that's what Mr. Canada said to Big Brother then. You were too drunk to remember—weren't you."

Alfred looked up in confusion; Matthew blushed.

"But it wasn't meant at Big Brother, was it. _My only beloved, my hero_—

_—America, that's you_."

She lowered her eyes to her feet then. "Even when you slept with Big Brother, you only thought of Mr. America."

"H—hey!"

Vash stammered, cheeks flushing bright red, "_don't say stuff like that in front of—_"

—in front of Roderich—though, really, he was entirely shocked to hear his sister speak of things like this at all—

She slowly turned to face them both, eyeing Vash directly.

"And you," she softly said, _au moins tu admet que j'ai toujours sauver ton petit cul dans la bataille_—_at least you admit I'd always have to save your ass in battle_—"

Her eyes rose toward Roderich, then back to Vash.

"H—hey—"

Roderich quietly murmured, uncomfortably aware that something unsettling was going on. She paced then toward them, small hands gentle as she took hold of theirs, then brought them together.

Vash blushed immediately, impulsively withdrawing away.

"Both of you, all four of you, you're all making the same mistake. You knew, didn't you, Big Brother, that it was Mr. Canada back then. Mr. America wouldn't speak to you in French."

"A—I—"

Matthew murmured shyly, having no recollection of the entire event. "W—was it Switzerland? Was that the person I…"

"Sh…_shut up…!_"

Vash muttered, still squirming to get away as his sister deliberately held Roderich's hand in his. He was completely humiliated at that moment, he thought he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

"I—I really think this isn't—"

Roderich quietly murmured, but he, too, was too stunned to act.

"Y…you topped Switzerland…"

Alfred felt himself go pale as he turned his gaze to Vash with disbelief.

"They were blackmailed," Liechtenstein said, "neither of them wanted to. Because each of them was already in love with someone else."

Before Alfred could interject, she turned back toward him and Matthew, deliberately gazing at the younger brother then.

"_Innocence_—_peversion_—"

The words came forth just barely audible,

"—_were there ever really such thin__gs__—_"

She felt Vash's eyes at the back of her neck.

"—_aren't we all merely human, doesn't everybody want—to be touched—_Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones, sex isn't the same thing as love—how nice it was for Mr. Canada to _finally get some attention_—but it does hurt, doesn't it, when the person you love sleeps with somebody else, so please, both of you—"

"_Francis—!_"

There suddenly came a loud exclamation from the direction of the hall, and all eyes turned to Arthur, who stood wet and disheveled at the entrance, naked as the day he was born, eyes trailing with horror over the mess in the room.

"_Francis, you get your sodding arse down here…!_"

_To be continued…_

_--_

_A/N: Credit for the lines in German goes to LumCheng; credit for the lines in French goes to Iosane._


	41. Chapter 41

Matthew and Alfred exchanged bewildered glances, Alfred partway through transferring the container of ice cream in his hands into Matthew's lap, when, moments later, there appeared at the entrance a mostly exhausted, completely naked, disoriented and disheveled Francis at Arthur's side.

He stared silently into the room for several seconds before, all at once, his eyes went wide, and, mortified, he gazed over his once-perfect kitchen with pure panic.

"_...ma sauce aux canneberges...!_"

_...my cranberry sauce...!_

he cried in despair, and then, moments later,

"…_merde! Et ma crème brûlée…!_"

…_shit! And my crème brûlée…!_

He and Arthur rushed together into the room, already blaming one another for the mess.

"Tout ça, c'est ta faute, pourquoi tu ne les a pas surveillés?"

_This is your fault, why didn't you watch them?_

"Oh, I was just a little _preoccupied_, if you've already forgotten—"

"_Boy, Al, you're in trouble_," Matthew softly whispered as he stared at Arthur and Francis scrambling to pick up the various tubs and tins upturned on the floor.

Still quite overwhelmed from everything that's happened, Alfred remained silent for a long time. His hand tightened around Matthew's, suddenly they were kids again, watching their parents duke it out—

Then, just as Arthur prepared to give the two of them a piece of his mind, there came the thundering sound of footsteps stomping down the hallway and heavily into the kitchen after that, and, to Alfred's astonishment, there came Ivan, running in mostly naked and struggling gracelessly to fasten his fly as his long scarf flapped and flailed behind him in his wake—

"_Hide me…!_"

He cried, practically pleading, as Alfred watched with uninterrupted fascination. Could it be? Had he lived to see the day that someone would actually take Russia down?

"_Big Brother, I saw you—_"

There came an ominous, malevolent voice, and Natalia stomped into the kitchen after him, large knife in hand,

"_I saw you with those naked guys—_"

Alfred's mouth slowly stretched into a grin; oh, inviting _all_ the ladies turned out to be quite the brilliant move.

"He's right there…!"

He sang, smiling big as he pointed to the kitchen table, where Ivan had unsuccessfully tried to crouch behind one of the chairs.

Now on his feet with fists pumping, Alfred proceeded to cheer her on,

"Go for it, Belarus! Give him hell…!"

"It's them…!" Ivan cried in trepidation, large hand pointed accusingly at Arthur and Francis, "it's them, those are the naked guys you want...!"

Matthew stood quietly at Alfred's side, long fingers loosely intertwining in his, and they watched with quiet curiosity as Belarus chased both Russia and France out the door to the back yard, hurling profanities and threats of eternal vengeance.

For once, all was right with the world.

"_What a woman…_"

Alfred murmured dreamily, and Matthew frowned, slapping his brother's shoulder with annoyance.

"Liechtenstein was right, you know," he quietly said. They both felt so jealous of each other—

Alfred grinned, his hand tightening in Matthew's.

"That's right,"

he said, turning slowly to his brother. He brought his hands toward him, reaching for him with curious reserve as he brushed his hair behind his ears. They had both hurt each other so much, each of them indulging in intimacy without regrets and without shame, but sex really wasn't the same thing as love, _my only beloved, my brother, I only ever really loved you—_

The racket in the back yard, the low sound of music still emanating from the nearby living room, chatter at the entrance to the kitchen—

Alfred kissed Matthew very slowly, his long arms possessively sliding around the small of his back.

Arthur stood at the window together with Roderich and Vash, and Liechtenstein, also, the four of them staring with mute astonishment at Ivan and Francis trying to escape—

"You've made a terrible mess,"

Matthew whispered to Alfred, head tilted back as his brother slowly kissed his neck, "your clothes are all sticky—"

"_Are they?_"

Alfred mouthed back, lips moving wet against the tremulous skin, and Matthew merely nodded, unable to form any words, so Alfred continued,

"We don't wanna get your review order uniform all sticky, do we—"

"_N-no—we don't—nnh! Al...!_"

As he continued to kiss him, Alfred slowly began to unfasten Matthew's belt, carefully undoing his buttons, he led him backward to the kitchen counter and then slowly lifted him onto there, Matthew's gentle hands carefully prying away Alfred's clothes—

By the time that half the crowd from the living room had gathered at the kitchen entrance, Alfred had Matthew on his back on the counter top, partway to naked, the two pressed against each other and kissing—

"_I'm sorry_,"

Alfred whispered,

"I'm sorry I called you those horrible things, I love you, Matty, I never meant to hurt you—"

Eyes closed, Matthew ran his hands tenderly over Alfred's slender back, affectionately, soothingly—his strong, big brother—

"_I hurt you, too, didn't I, Al—_"

he whispered, "I'm so sorry, too—"

"Why, Matty," Alfred mouthed, hands sliding gently over Matthew's flat abdomen, "why'd you have to do it, why'd you ever wanna get with anybody else—"

"_I'm sorry_,"

Matthew whispered again,

"It's like Liechtenstein said, I wanted the attention, I wanted to be noticed—I'm so sorry I hurt you, big brother—"

Poor little Matthew.

"_How's this for attention_," Alfred's voice came soft and humid against Matthew's lips, his long fingers gradually trailing their way farther down, "_everyone's watching us, Matt—_"

Very slowly, both brothers turned to gaze at the doorway, where a large crowed had gathered, the ladies slack-jawed as they watched, phone cameras running.

Alfred never stopped kissing Matthew. He never moved his hands away, the bundles of hair at his forehead falling softly onto Matthew's face, his lips still partly on his,

"_Is this what you wanted, baby brother? Let's give them a show_."

Matthew blushed furiously; now that all eyes were right on him for real, he was suddenly shy, helpless in Alfred's embrace as the older boy carefully disrobed him.

By now otherwise naked as the day he was born, Alfred tilted the rim of his cowboy hat just over his eyes, just almost to hide their faces as they kissed, "I'm not like Russia and France, but _I'll take care of you, Matty_."

Timid and shy, Matthew softly smiled back, wondering if he could really have done it with anyone else—now sober, aware, would he have truly felt protected with anyone but Alfred—

His long hair cascaded softly down as he tilted his head to kiss the older boy, "_Please don't hurt me_," he whispered, and Alfred's eyes twinkled with childlike curiosity—even though he knew that this was something Matthew said only because it was something that he liked to hear, it came inadvertently poignant just then—

"_I'm sorry I hurt you_,"

Alfred whispered, pointed tip of his nose buried in the crook of Matthew's neck,

"_I'm so sorry, baby brother—_"

His large hands continued gently to unravel the various bindings of Matthew's formal suit, he moved back along the counter as to pull off his riding boots and his trousers after that, yellow wisps of hair swinging over his forehead and lips slightly parted as he tugged open his red blazer to reveal his slender chest beneath, the ladies frozen in place and quietly murmuring stifled pleas for him to remove Matthew's briefs already, for the love of all that was holy—

Matthew kind of wanted him to do so, as well, aroused but terribly nervous all the while, unsure of how to handle all the attention now that he had it at last—

"They wanna see us kissing, Matty,"

Alfred whispered, and, clinging on to his brother's back for dear life, Matthew quietly nodded, dutifully reaching to kiss him again, his eyebrows rising to his hairline with innocent surprise when slowly Alfred's long fingers slid past the elastic of his briefs and trailed the length of his member under the fabric, Matthew's slender hips rising to meet him as of their own accord.

Alfred was aroused then, neither ashamed of his body nor attempting to flaunt it the way Francis or Ivan had theirs—accustomed to public attention as he were, he devoted himself entirely to Matthew now, gently stroking him beneath the white cotton cloth of his briefs, "_Ready for me to take this off?_" he breathed against his mouth, and Matthew continued kissing him in silence, clinging hard to his lips, far too nervous to either approve or deny him.

"Komm schon," Roderich said quietly to Vash, _come on_, "lass uns das nicht mit ansehen."

_Let's not stare at all that._

Vash nodded, his hand closing by force of habit in his sister's, ready to tug her along out of the room—for a few moments, he held on—and then, quietly hanging his head, he released her, green eyes darting toward her in defeat.

"Du solltest dir das ansehen können, wenn du möchtest,"

_You should be able to watch that if you want,_

he quietly stammered—after all, there was no such thing as _perversion_ or _innocence_, was there—his sister had said so, herself—everyone was curious about sex, there really was no—

Furiously blushing, he raised his eyes to Roderich's, nodding to him that they should go on—

—_there really was no shame in that._

"Nur zu," Vash murmured nervously to his sister, _go on_, nevertheless not brave enough to meet her gaze, "auf sowas stehen Mädchen, nicht wahr?"

_That's what girls are into, isn't it?_

She merely gazed back in silence for several moments after the fact, finally nodding in agreement—_that's right_. Even if she was too shy to admit it to herself back at the first party, it _was_ nice to watch, and it didn't make her a pervert or a horrible person to think so—it merely made her a normal woman.

"Danke, großer Bruder,"

_Thank you, Big Brother,_

she quietly smiled before turning on her heels and joining the rest of the ladies in the crowd—and, hands loosely intertwined, Roderich and Vash civilly made their way together out of the room.

Arthur wondered with subdued curiosity whether or not he should be watching all this.

Without removing his gaze from Matthew's face, Alfred slowly pulled the white cotton briefs down along his brother's long legs, affectionately, tenderly—those two had always loved each other, Arthur fondly thought, and even though he'd been quite intimately involved with Alfred, himself, he felt somehow intrusive just then; for some reason, he just couldn't stick around and watch—

He wondered how far Francis and Ivan had gotten by then, his body was still sore, wonderfully sore from Ivan's ministrations, his thighs were still wet—loosely tying his waiter apron back around his narrow waist, he stepped out into the back yard, there was no sign of the two of them there, nor of Natalia, maybe she was still chasing them out all this time—

Up on the counter, Matthew's long legs bent in modesty as Alfred gently laid kisses on his abdomen, his stomach, his white, bony hips, _Matty, I love you_, the both of them still wearing their hats, the mountie and the cowboy, otherwise you might never have told them apart—

Matthew gasped aloud when Alfred slowly kissed his member, lovingly, possessively, cheeks flushing crimson as he raised his head just enough to see what his brother was doing, the girls began crying out impatiently for Matthew to straighten his legs so that they also could see—and, embarrassed, he silently complied, murmuring apologies as was his nature, beginning to lose concentration as Alfred took him carefully into his mouth—

Natalia had beat Ivan good.

She gave Francis a good whooping, too, he just barely escaped as she very nearly cut his bits and pieces off with her knife, he thought she was very sexy, actually, if only she wasn't so far bent on castrating him—he tried to negotiate, explaining that, quite unfortunately, he really saw no action from her brother that night, that it was really Arthur she wanted, but to no avail—

She left him beaten and bruised and a bit cut and scratched, and completely in love, lying naked and senseless out in the orchard a few blocks away, and Arthur now bent over him with quiet contentment, poking him gracelessly with a long wooden stick.

"Oi, looks like she got ya,"

He murmured with partial amusement, still poking the stick down at Francis even after he'd opened his eyes.

Francis growled irritably as he gazed back in the darkness; his whole body hurt, his back felt completely stiff and his vision was partly blurry at first.

"Yeah,"

he murmured, voice hoarse and subdued, lips slowly stretching into a smile as the memory gradually returned,

"Yeah, _she got me good_."

All at once, he suddenly flipped his head up to gaze at his groin in a panic, and then, with a tremendous sigh of relief, he fell back down on his back, silently whispering, "_Ah, Dieu merci_—"

_Oh, thank God—_

Arthur snickered; this was priceless, he would've vowed then to make fun of Francis for the rest of his days, if Natalia had only been anywhere remotely near the only person to ever express the desire to castrate the guy.

"Well, see ya,"

Arthur said evilly before throwing the stick to the ground, rising to his feet and beginning to walk away, while Francis weakly reached out his hand after him,

"Hey…you're not just gonna leave me here, you little punk…!"

Arthur shrugged his shoulders without turning around, pacing down between the trees, apron flailing lightly in the night air, still vastly amused and snickering as he walked.

Francis then proceeded to hurl expletives at him in both English and French, menacing as he shook his fist, and then when that didn't work, eventually his curses turned to miserable pleading and whining in pain, until finally Arthur turned around in irritation and threatened to kill him if he didn't shut up.

Francis smiled in relief.

"Come on, England…"

He beckoned with a slightly pathetic grin, "Help Big Brother back in the house…"

"I'd rather you stayed out here and died. She should've cut them off, really…"

"You really say such horrible things…"

"Nothing short of what you deserve…!"

"Come and give Big Brother a kiss."

"Ha! I'd rather kiss a horse's arse."

"Is that what you're into…England, you pervert…"

"That's it! _I'm leaving you here to rot!"_

"_Hey, hey…!_"

XXX

Soft, wet sounds emanating throughout the large expanse of the kitchen, the room otherwise strewn in completely silence, all the ladies watching as, gingerly, carefully, Matthew lapped at Alfred's member—

Up on the counter, Alfred carefully brushed back Matthew's long hair, silently mouthing inaudible words, eyes glazed with arousal; Matthew looked docilely up, the fluid glistening clear out the corner of his mouth and trailing down to his chin, he didn't dare move his gaze away as he continued to have at him, and when finally Alfred asked him in the softest of tones if he could put it in then, Taiwan and Hungary somehow had heard, and they both went into terrible fits of squealing and cheering behind their phone cameras—

Alfred quietly shushed them, not because he at all minded the feedback, but because it was making Matthew blush even more, Alfred remembered how his brother reacted on reading their letter requesting his "services" some time before that—

—although, ultimately, deep down, Matthew had wanted to accept their request—

When finally the racket from the audience subsided, Matthew gazed toward his brother, slowly allowing the glittering member out from in-between his lips, and, licking carefully at the fluid, he timidly nodded at Alfred, voice near inaudible as he murmured back that it was okay to put it in—

—another series of cheers, this time a little more stifled but still loud enough to earn them a roll of the eyes from Alfred's direction, which they found charming, as well—

Very gently, Alfred laid Matthew back down, gently kissing him all the while and lapping at the fluid on his lips, carefully sliding the wet tip of his member just outside his entrance as Matthew slid his feet farther apart—

Matthew's eyes fluttered shut, long arms coming all around Alfred's neck in an innocent show of affection, his voice issuing forth very stifled and soft there against his brother's mouth—he blushed at the pleasant sensation and the profanely wet sounds from beneath—

Alfred's voice came forth just as innocent, it may as well have been their first time all over again, _so wholesome, those two—_no, sex wasn't the same thing as love, but theirs was a genuine show of love all the while, Alfred never stopped kissing Matthew as he slowly moved in, the both of them quietly gasping against each other's lips—

From somewhere far off, there came subtly the low sound of classical piano, Vash standing idly at Roderich's side while the other boy engaged at the task, long fingers running with composed proficiency across the ivory keys.

"Mach weiter,"

_Go on,_

Roderich quietly said without raising his eyes, "Setz dich."

_have a seat._

For a few moments, Vash hesitated—then he finally sat, face stern as always but inwardly tingling alive, the slender digits of his hand shaking just a little as he raised them to the keys.

Out in the orchard, Arthur grumbled with vast irritation as he helped Francis walk, allowing the older boy to lean on him for support along their way, informing him exactly of how much of a pain he was all throughout their journey back to Francis' house.

They stopped just outside the glass doors leading to the kitchen, squinting at the warm light emanating from within, slowly rousing from their current argument as they realized just what they were looking at—

Francis' expression softened, for once affectionate and not perverse—

He tilted his head just enough to murmur the words at Arthur's ear, "_Tout ça, c'est ta faute_," _this is your fault, you know_, "_pourquoi tu ne les a pas surveillés?"_

_Why didn't you watch them?_

Arthur watched transfixed for a few moments more, eyes glistening wet with tender affection—it didn't feel like he was watching something perverse;

"Il s'aiment vraiment, ces deux là,"

_They really love each other, those two,_

he quietly murmured to Francis in response—but it did feel like they were intruding on something intimate—and even though a whole bunch of women were intruding, just the same, those were France and England's two little boys, after all—Arthur quietly laughed as he pulled Francis away from the kitchen door and around to the side of the house.

"_Come on, let's get you cleaned up, you filthy wine bastard_."

_To be continued: Epilogue_

—

_A/N: A little while back, I commissioned the amazing artist, fictitious-disorder, to draw art for this story. Unfortunately, I'm unable to include links here in the chapter, but if you really feel like making the effort, the links for the two images are up on my profile.  
_

_Credit for the lines in French goes to Iosane and Maikichelorrain; credit for the lines in German goes to LumCheng and Seiichirou_uta - thank you all so much!_


	42. Epilogue

Arthur wasn't going to act like he gave a damn. Or at least, he wasn't going to talk like he gave a damn, it was common sense, wasn't it, he said he was gonna help Francis wash up, so he was gonna do it, not like he cared if the bugger was all beaten and scratched and bruised; in fact, he deserved it, Arthur would have left him there to die if Francis hadn't whined and nagged him so much to help him get back home.

He knew Francis used all kinds of fancy, fruity things to wash his hair, so Arthur deliberately washed him with the plainest things available, and it wasn't easy, because they were at Francis' house, after all, and most of the stuff he had was weird and fruity.

"Sodding frog, haven't you got anything normal,"

Arthur murmured as he poured some shampoo into the palm of his hand, sitting still in his waiter's apron at the edge of the tub, long legs dipped into the water behind Francis as he began to wash his curling long hair, good and rough, as gracelessly as possible, deliberately pulling.

"Ah…! Ah….!"

Francis cringed, large hands reaching back reflexively to grasp at Arthur's wrists, "Gentle, gentle…"

"You want gentle, do you,"

Arthur smirked, only pulling harder, and finally Francis partly turned around, still grasping his wrists, eyes gazing up sarcastically. He knew the guy was doing it on purpose, but he was gonna pretend he didn't, so he could insult him better.

"You clumsy oaf,"

Francis crooned, "as bad in the bath as you are in the kitchen…"

"_Why, you…!_"

Arthur growled, struggling to get his wrists loose, to no avail and to Francis' vast enjoyment; with a quick tug at his arms, Francis gracelessly pulled Arthur into the bath, the water splashing messily over the side of the tub and onto the walls and the floor, Arthur crying out in shock and squeezing his eyes shut as to avoid the soap suds from going in.

There was a brief struggle that ensued, Francis enjoying it much more than Arthur, despite how much the other boy batted and scratched at him in attempt to get away.

"You've gone and gotten me all wet, you daft bellend…!" Arthur growled, and Francis practically purred in enjoyment at his defensive cries of dismay.

"That's just as well, wouldn't you say, England?"

he asked, "Seeing as you're such a _dirty _boy."

"I'll show you dirty…!"

Arthur replied, and if he'd thought better of it, he might have refrained from saying anything at all, because _showing him dirty_ was naturally what Francis would want.

XXX

There wasn't much exchanged in the means of conversation between Roderich and Vash; for several hours, there was between them the elegant, mutual reserve, unspoken understanding as they played the piano together, duet after duet, Roderich glancing pensively out the corner of his eye at Vash staring nervously at the ivory keys.

There was something in the air between them, something ancient but vivid, a fluttering tension all too familiar to them both but which had at very long last come almost to manifestation in a world outside their minds.

XXX

"_We can't carry them to bed_,"

Arthur whispered softly to Francis as they peered out into the kitchen very late into the night,

"_the two of them are huge, Alfred especially…_"

While Matthew was actually all skin and bones, he'd nevertheless grown as tall as his brother, and the both of them towered above their parents now.

"_Shame on you, England, they're our little boys_,"

Francis whispered indignantly back,

"_Having them spend the night out on the counter like this…_"

Arthur scoffed, glancing at his older counterpart with quiet irritation; Francis had no qualms, after all, and no shame, about treating _their little boys_ not altogether so tenderly, when it came to his own satisfaction.

"_You're just out for a feel_,"

Arthur said back, his own eyes scanning stealthily over Alfred's naked form in the dim light of the lamps emanating outside the window from the back yard. Francis had washed Arthur's hair lovingly. Deceptively and quite suspiciously gentle, he'd run his hands with careful attention through the other boy's hair, proficient despite all his faults and perversions and taunts.

_He can be terribly sweet when he wants to_, Arthur might secretly think to himself if he hadn't hated and loathed the wine bastard so much.

When Alfred and Matthew were very little, Arthur and Francis would pick them up while they slept, after the boys had dozed off in the family room in front of the hearth or out on the porch during summertime; they would pick them up carefully without waking either, and then carry them up to their beds—

_There's no way_, Arthur thought now, inspecting Alfred a little too intently as the boy's enormous arms wrapped all around Matthew's slender back—and he found himself wishing once more that America was a cute little colony, adorably calling out his name as his little arms had come around him, back hundreds of years ago—

"_Stupid America_,"

he quietly said, but his voice rang with tender affection as then he walked closer, gently laying his palms on both brothers' shoulders.

"_Oi, America…Canada…_"

He quietly said, as though somehow afraid to wake them up, and Alfred stirred, curling sleepily into Matthew and away from Arthur's hand.

"_Five more minutes…_" he murmured.

Francis snickered, approaching behind Arthur to get a closer look. With a devious grin, he proceeded to run his hand along the side of Matthew's body, over the place where Alfred's arm wrapped around his naked back and then down to his behind, appreciatively squeezing; Matthew's thighs were still wet from before.

"_Ah, this is nice…_"

Francis purred in approval, and when Arthur realized what he was doing, he snapped in anger all at once, reaching immediately to slap Francis' hand away and proceeding to yell all too loud,

"_Just what are you doing…! This is bad, even for you…!_"

Both brothers startled at this, Matthew propping up from within the restraint of Alfred's arm, staring in terror into the dimly-lit kitchen, Alfred appearing sleepily disoriented as his blue eyes came open, clearly confused.

Arthur and Francis already were partly engaged in a fight, each accusing the other of pursuing perverted intent toward their precious twin boys and denying the same all the while, presumably each quite repulsed that the other would say such a thing.

Alfred and Matthew gazed forth at the two for some time, Matthew's hands tightening with absent trepidation around his brother's arm for support.

"Alfred, I'm sleepy,"

he quietly said, and, turning his head to his brother then, Alfred nodded in reply, carefully proceeding to unravel his long legs from Matthew's.

"We fell asleep here…" he said in a moment of revelation, realizing after that that his behind was quite sore from being pressed against the hard counter for so long.

"Come on, Matty, let's go to bed—"

Arthur and Francis finally turned around when then Alfred hopped down, Matthew reaching toward him on impulse as his brother had taken him up in his arms.

"Oh…!" Francis laughed on seeing them then, "Looks like they woke up on their own…!"

Arthur laughed too, hand scratching absently at the nape of his neck.

"Of course they woke up, you complete imbecile…! What with you screaming so loud at all hours of the night…!"

"_Me_ screaming…! Look at you…!_ You were the one—_"

"We're used to the two of you screaming," Alfred sleepily yawned, Matthew clinging warmly in his arms, head already buried in the crook of his neck. "This is just like old times…"

"Just like old…" Arthur murmured with humility and surprise, and then he remembered to scowl, "_Cheeky bugger…_"

He leaned gently forth, rising on tiptoe to kiss Alfred's forehead goodnight, then Matthew's, and Matthew's slender arms came around Arthur's shoulders as he sleepily kissed him back, only partly awake and moving largely on habit.

"_Papa, too_,"

he softly said, reaching blindly to hug Francis after that, and Arthur watched warily lest _Papa_ made any further unwanted advances at the boy. Alfred was pensive, as well, ever possessive of his baby brother and rightfully suspicious of France, _remember who loves you the most, Matty, remember to whom you belong—_

Francis had set aside a bedroom for them upstairs, and Alfred had very gently carried his brother there, carefully closing the door and proceeding to lay Matthew down onto the bed. The younger boy already was mostly asleep, yellow hair scattering like corn silk on the pillow beneath as he waited patiently for Alfred.

They would wash up in the morning, Alfred thought, he'd spring out of bed with vast enthusiasm at the crack of dawn in order to jog five miles and then shower, then fry up some Bacon Explosion or Heart Failure Surprise for breakfast for everyone, then sit down to figure out the next super plan of action for saving the world—

Right now, Matthew was weightless and sweet in his arms, slender limbs again interwoven in his, the soft scent of shampoo, the kind smile at his lips, innocent, tender, _Alfred, I love you_, he'd say if he still were awake, and Alfred would tease him and torture him, and laugh it all off and pretend he didn't notice that Matt was there at all—

That, also, would be like old times.

Alfred leaned over to the bedside table in order to turn off the lamp, and then lifted the covers over Matthew's naked shoulder, sliding in closer to him in the dark, his large arms coming protectively around him, possessively; now that Matt was asleep, it was okay for America to let on how nice it was indeed that Canada was always, _always so close_, and that there always had been a deep, fundamental love between them and mutual understanding, that spanned profoundly beyond any trivial complication or juvenile dispute;

In the darkness, Alfred slowly moved closer and kissed Matthew then, affectionately, delicately, _you're mine_, he silently breathed, _you know that_—

_—and, gently—_

_—very softly—_

Matthew grinned when he kissed him back, breath coming tender and warm as he mouthed in reply,

"_Alfred, you know you're mine, too._"

_End_

XXX

_A/N: I'd like to extend my gratitude to all my wonderful readers who have kept up with this story for so very long, as well as to all the awesome translators who have helped me with the lines in French and German. I must say that writing about Alfred and Matthew has been an absolute pleasure for me, and a definite labor of love. A few months ago, I commissioned the talented TechnoRanma to draw art for this story; because I'm unable to include links here in the text, please go to my profile to view the image, but please note that it is quite profane and absolutely not safe for work. _


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